


Bound: Part II - Determined

by Darkflames_Pyre



Series: The Bound Series [2]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Family, Fix-Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Other, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 22:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 86,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4937407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkflames_Pyre/pseuds/Darkflames_Pyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/> </p><p>Space is relative when you consider the ramifications of what distance can do. I realise now that it is more difficult when the object is close, but also far enough to be unreachable. The second instalment in the 'Bound' Series. Rated for some extremely scattered coarse language and some distressing themes. Movie-verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Bound was the part of the story leading up to and including the final chapter; John's turning point, and the step forward on the road he has chosen to take, and Determined is from that point to wherever and however it may be that this story might end. Yep. I'm being deliberately cryptic right now; so if anyone kind of skipped my note up there, there will be no spoilers that may give away the previous story. So if there are any people, who have come across this by accident, perhaps go to Bound and find out what happened first, and then return. So turn back now, before all is prematurely revealed to you!
> 
> For those of you who have read before; be my guests, and continue happily!
> 
> When I set out to begin writing Bound, I really didn't expect to receive even the smallest fraction of the reviews I have, and it is all thanks to all of you that that has occurred. I have had many beautiful comments that have really given me confidence in my burgeoning writing abilities; from the characterisation of John to the emotions and feelings that I have apparently been able to communicate through the telling.
> 
> I must confess that I have been extremely lucky never to have experienced or have had to watch anyone I know battle with any sort of life-threatening condition, and I just want to say that I admire the lot of you for sticking with me on this. Truly; some of the things that have and will be touched on in these stories will very graphic and scary, and will most likely be extremely difficult to both write and read. There are a couple of people who had been reading this, that also gave me some truly amazing comments, but they have unfortunately had to cease following the story because the subject material was too close to home for them to cope with, and that is totally understandable.
> 
> It may seem strange that I am writing this now, instead of at the very beginning of Bound, but I have seen so many things on the news and in the newspaper lately, and I do not want to claim to know what those brave people are going through every day as they battle to survive their respective illnesses and injuries. 
> 
> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.

There are some things that are meant to be experienced only once. Loss of confidence in self and loss of motivation are at the top of that list. And then there are things that are never meant to be experienced at all. Almost dying and the violation of a sacred place are two of them.

It had been three weeks since I had been diagnosed as a relapsed b-cell lymphoma, and three-and-a-half since the events that had occurred that had gone and taken just about everything that was important to me; my stars, my freedom to move without pain, and the safety of our home base and the security and well-being of each member of our family.

I hated the fact that I found myself in this particular place again. Eight years is really not enough time to forget the terrible experiences that being almost terminally ill gives you. At a time where you should by all rights be tearing about the town with your friends; making mischief and your own fun, a fourteen-year-old shouldn't be enduring months of intense treatment; frequent needle-sticks, blood-tests and constant monitoring of vitamin levels and life-signs, to ensure all that was as well as could be expected for someone who was literally being eaten from the inside out. I had hated watching my family watch me wither before their eyes, wondering how and if they were coping with all of it.

It was much the same this time around, but it was rendered many times more difficult to remember the memories of my last bout with cancer, because of my all-too-clear memories of attempting to stay strong when all seemed so close to being lost; that and the addition of fact that we had almost been murdered by a megalomaniac. It was much the same now; only I wanted to reverse time —not to before my teenage years— but to rewind to before the attack, and forget that any of it had ever happened.

The week that we had spent in Topeka while I had taken in my first several infusions had brought strong recollections of the struggles I had faced all that time ago. The times where I had felt so bad, both physically and mentally, that it was an effort to blink let alone even think about trying to get out of bed, and attempt to face another day. Those feelings were renewed, recalled and proved just as terrifying as before, when I was faced with the return to the island; increased a hundred-fold with Tracy One's touchdown on the main landing strip.

As we spent the first twenty-four hours back on the island, it was clear that many things were different. I wasn't sure a word even existed as a suitable descriptor for the feelings that I had as we taxied into the hangar on the south-west shore. No, it was not for lack of warmth or familiar and welcome faces that were the pieces that didn't fit in the puzzle of 'what doesn't belong' Oh no.

It was the fact that our home seemed somehow darker; less welcoming, and much more menacing all of a sudden. We had all been somewhat calmer back in Lawrence because of the distance from the scene of the crime. Now we were home we were forced to confront the idea that we had been invaded, ransacked, and had very nearly been killed because we were trying to protect our home and our own.

The members of our little community who had remained on the island had done a stellar job in repairing all the damage that had been inflicted, of returning the house almost completely to the way it had always been; but there was still evidence of the disaster that Trangh Belagant had left in his wake, reminders everywhere that our most cherished secrets, and the one place where we all felt the most secure had been irrevocably and irreparably tainted by the machinations of a nutcase hell-bent on gaining ultimate power.

It was not only the emotional and mental aspects of the Hood's attack that had changed us; it was the missing or damaged pieces of the aesthetic environment that had been stained with a madman's desires, damaging all of us in every single way imaginable, by brutally destroying and taking away the little things that had been a part of our environment for so many years. The couch in the lounge was no longer there; glasses that had been used for celebratory toasts; the ancient chipped-blue mugs that had been a wedding gift to our parents; Grandma's favourite set of antique china settings, were all gone. Items that represented memories, thoughts and fond recollections had all been discarded as though containing the deadliest of all plagues; ending their lives as serviceable items turned against us; used as shatter-edged projectiles. They had been forced into service to become artillery bombs and shrapnel-fire, launched from the hands of the invading army, and turned against the defenders of the castle in the siege that had almost been lost.

Everywhere we went, there was ever more evidence of the trauma our home had experienced, and been altered by; the churned-up earth from the quad-bikes; crushed foliage in the garden where both my father and Kyrano spent their time; the cracked and battered tiles on the pool deck, and the frame where the wide-panelled window in the lounge had been was nothing but empty. It let in all the cold things that we tried to shut out as the sun went down.

It was as I had predicted; the issues that had been festering for the preceding few weeks had come out full-force once we had gotten used to our deep-set relief that we were home and relatively intact.

I had heard Scott screaming in his sleep twice and sometimes thrice-nightly about the terror of the idea of watching us all burn. Alarmingly, when I had gone in to check on Big Brother, I had seen the edge of his old service revolver poking out from beneath his pillow; he had slept with it there for months following his being shot-down on an aid-mission to Afghanistan three-and-a-half-years ago. I knew that it was the only thing that was allowing him to drift off at all, despite the terrors he faced when he did.

Gordon swam non-stop; dealing with his own demon aftermath by tiring himself out so badly that he could barely walk, let alone have energy left enough to dream. He was subdued and silent, withdrawing more than I ever could have done, and I found myself planning to speak with him as soon as heavenly possible; because he was still just as much a child as Alan.

I had not yet worked out exactly where Virgil was letting out his stress, but his neatness had become borderline obsessive-compulsive; worse than he had ever been, and that alone worried me, because it meant that he wasn't playing the piano, or sketching or any of his usual pursuits; so deep was his distraction with the cleanliness of the villa. His temper was getting more and more frayed as well, which was even stranger, but not really surprising considering the circumstances.

Alan was the easiest to decipher; he had found comfort merely by slipping into my bed each night, apparently under the impression that because I was so tired all of the time; wiped out from the intravenous meds, the chemo and the residual exhaustion from my injuries that I was automatically able to sleep through the night.

I was silent and still during those times; all the kid really wanted was the sensation of someone warm and familiar near him, and never would I embarrass him by telling him that I heard every sound and movement he made from the moment he crossed the threshold into my bedroom until the fading of his footsteps that signalled his departure in the early hours of the morning.

My father too was on edge. I knew that he wasn't sleeping more than three hours a night; prowling through the villa by moonlight; patrolling the corridors with eyes as sharp as a tiger's, unable to even think about retiring to his room until he had double and triple-checked all of the locks and windows, until he was almost content that nothing else was lurking, ready to strike from the shadows at any moment.

The other two families on the island had thus retreated to their own private apartments, perhaps unwilling to let their own members out of their sights; but I wanted to protect them all the same. Myself, my brothers and sister, my father, my 'aunt' and my 'uncles'; all were changed by this loss of innocence that we had been forced to endure.

All of this was made infinitely more complicated with the addition of my treatments. I was entering my last week of the chemo part of the first cycle, and I was already at my wits' end, both physically and mentally. Lack of sleep from listening to the island's night-time wanderers was inevitably leaving me exhausted, and I spent most of my time on the couch sleeping than actually trying to participate as I had initially wished, and I was sick, ill and still wracked with pain from the injuries I had sustained up on the satellite.

I was worrying my family, and I was worried by them; and there was no doubt that what was to come for us next was going to throw us a curve-ball so far off of straight, that there was no way we would be able to find our way back alone.


	2. Beyond the Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.

_John Tracy, meet toilet bowl. Oh! So you've met already? Alrighty then. And you know each other well, do you? Wow…._

Yep. It was going to be one of _those_ days. The ones where you really, truly weren't going to be up to doing anything at all but making your way straight back to bed. Not that you would really be able to plan on doing anything else, considering that your gut has you currently sticking your head into the ceramic drop-pit of horror; rumbling up every last dreg of stomach acid and bile that it possesses, and it isn't even halfway near time to draw your tired, scrawny, long-limbed body out of bed yet.

I was extremely glad that I had a private bathroom. otherwise the rest of the house-hold would be forced to deal with the sickening stench of upchucked toast-and-tea; which was disgusting at the best of times, but when you are so worn out after bringing it up, more often than not you almost end up face-planting in the stuff. It really made you stink terribly as well, and it really wasn't the most pleasant thing to deal with first thing in the morning.

Day twenty in the set of six hours on, eighteen off of the damn chemo; just three more odious and detestable days of having a bag attached to the port on my arm, which in turn was attached to my shoulder in an advantageous position for infusion, and then I would have my week off before going back to Kansas for my week of radiation therapy. I was looking forward to the time with the less vomiting-almost-every-hour: definitely. The cycle would then begin all over again the week after, with all the regularity of a particularly hateful cuckoo clock.

I had slept rather log-like for a change, despite having woken up half-a-dozen times to Scott's moans next door. Alan was in his usual position; limbs splayed across the bed, hogging the blanket that I had been generous enough to share with him, and snoring so much like a sick steam-engine that I was really surprised that I had been able to sleep so deeply in the bits I had at all. I had simply dropped back to sleep after listening to my older brother's muttering, seemingly with no intention of caring that I wasn't actually in a much comfortable position for such activities; nor the fact that I was so tired that I hadn't even bothered to properly pull the covers back over my shoulders. That was once I had cooled down from the overheated state that I was still suffering from. It had all ended around five am, I had found myself lurching hurriedly into the bathroom, thankfully making it just as my pitiful dinner from the night before managed to make its rather overdramatic re-appearance with searing, sour bile-flavoured heaves.

When it finally appeared that my over-sensitive stomach had finished with the new let's-see-how-much-John-likes-having-a-new-alarm-clock thing, I slowly rested my achy head against the cool edge of the toilet bowl; closing my eyes wearily as the inevitable thumping began in my temples. I knew that I should make a move to get away from the germ-ridden area pretty much _lickety-split, right now Bucko_ , but I was kind of lacking the necessary energy to actually do anything right at that moment.

I found that I was shivering lightly from the sheen of sweat that I was soaked in. The cold tiles were much less welcoming to my wet-pyjama-covered body that it apparently was to my forehead, not to mention the chill of the ventilation system that lived above my head, circulating the air around the house to prevent the villa from becoming too stuffy and overly ridden with dust and germs; especially now that my immune system was this thumb-and-forefinger-almost-touching close to crashing in an undignified heap.

Shuddering involuntarily, I grabbed at the edge of the basin to draw myself to my feet. I was still favouring my right arm, the shoulder still fairly tender; the taut fabric sling having been replaced by one of the foam figure-eight ones that was a lot more comfortable on my neck. The back brace had been totally abandoned a few days ago, though I had still been ordered to take it easy on the whole front of 'don't move too abruptly, or else it'll hurt more than hell and a hand-basket'. The arm with the thick fabric sleeve that protected the PICC site had been severely limiting me in the movement department, though I had eventually gotten somewhat used to the occasional pulling that the line presented, but I was very much looking forward to the moment when Brains and Virgil proclaimed my fractured collarbone to be healed enough to warrant the freedom of movement that I desired. using both hands was a priority when a person spent the majority of their time on the computer. I could type one-handed, as I had been doing for the past almost-month, but as Gordon had found when I had told him to take a try and stop asking silly questions— it was much harder than it looked.

My breath hitched a little as my spine stuttered in its, _hey!-don't-move-I'm-healing!_ kind of way, and my shoulder and collarbone complained a little about the pressure I was placing on them, but otherwise it was really only my mutinous stomach that was giving me hell at the moment.

I wavered unsteadily for a second, leaning against the countertop as I splashed water on my face and rinsed my mouth of the unsavoury taste of vomit, before figuring that now I was up —nauseated and tired to the bone as I was— but still very much awake, that there was really no way that I was going to be able to sleep now. I'd probably just end up conking out on the couch later anyway.

Grabbing my night-robe from where it had been flung haphazardly across the end of my bed, I shrugged into it; noticing the conspicuous absence of Alan's breathing and the usual non-notice about my on-off heaving, and assumed that he must have already made his way back to his own bedroom. I shuffled my way into the hall that led to the shared quarters of the house, pulling the sash tight across my pyjama shirt; one-handed in the face of the four o'clock chill that still lingered in the air even an hour past the aforementioned time.

The house was dark and silent but for the pre-dawn chirruping of the insects in the vegetation surrounding the villa. It was comforting, knowing that at least something was relatively normal about the place. The rest of us certainly weren't; not if you were in your right mind and considered insomniacs, OCD clean-aholics, and paranoid ex-fighter-pilots normal, even when you weren't factoring in psychos trying to do you in in the most utterly complete method possible.

Speaking of insomniacs…. It appeared that I was not the only one up at such an ungodly hour of the day. There was a light glowing from the kitchen island as I turned into the lounge; from my end of the room, down near the doors to the pool deck and the bandaged wound that was the bay window, I saw the profile of my eldest brother hunched on one of the stools at the counter, a cup of what smelled suspiciously like Onaha's so-damn-strong-you-could-wake-the-dead-brew clutched firmly between his work-callused hands.

I still wasn't moving with my usual gait; the stiffness of my bruised back was reason enough for the whole step-shuffle thing I had going, so I really wasn't surprised when my brother spoke, his voice dog-tired, and filled with the weariness that his nightmares always left him with. He was coiled like a spring and tensed to snap at any moment. "Mornin'" he grunted. "What's up?"

I shook my head wordlessly, unwilling to go into my early-morning chuck session right now, and settled for grabbing a mug from the cupboard beneath the countertop. I turned almost without thinking to the coffee machine in the alcove, but a firm hand on my shoulder suddenly steered me to the pantry instead, where there was a selection of packeted broth-soups that were my sustenance lately. I nodded my thanks to Scott, who was now returning to his perch, and dumped the contents of the first sachet that met my grasping fingers into the mug; still sort of fuzzy in the thought department despite my awareness to the wakened world for almost thirty minutes already. I spat the plastic strip off the top of the pouch out of my mouth after tearing the top off with my teeth, grimacing at the little leftover bits of paper left in my mouth. Grandma had always told me off for doing that; but I figured that I had a free-walk pass with the whole arm-bound-beneath-the-robe-in-a-sling-thing that I had going at the moment. And, she wasn't even on the island to reprimand me; Scott wouldn't even think about ratting me out. I had kept far too many of his petty little secrets for him to even consider doing anything that may have otherwise given me a reason to bring my wrath down on him. There were _way_ too many things he would prefer to be kept secret from our brothers for me to ever be seriously worried about exposure.

It wasn't until I had the cup of steamy, chicken-flavoured Continental Cup-a-Soup in my grasp, and was settled firmly onto the seat beside my brother that either of us spoke again; revelling in the comfort of sibling-ness, and the companionship that only that of a hot early-morning beverage could bring to a person.

"So..." I began. "What brings you here?" The inane question, accompanied with the slight nudge to my brother's shoulder immediately brought a grin to his face. I had never, ever been known for my comedic abilities, and it was only the faux sarcastic way I had spoken that had rewarded me with any reaction to it at all.

"The coffee's good." Such a simple response, but much like my comment to him, it immediately sent a smile curving to my lips. it transformed into a smirk as I saw the knowing look on my brother's face. I hurriedly covered my snigger at the guy's perceptiveness with a gulp of my soup; only to gag with watering eyes at the scalding liquid as it burned its way down my oesophagus.

"Aargh!" I gasped involuntarily; almost dropping the mug straight to the counter-top as the creamy-yellow froth slopped over the edge of the mug. Only Scott's quick fingers prevented me from burning any other unfortunate place on my body. I blew hurriedly on the reddened tips; why did I have to use boiling water in my mug? I should surely know by now that John Glenn Tracy at five am is seriously not the most coordinated being on the planet.

Once I had stopped gasping for air, and had downed the glass of water that my brother handed me in cool sips, I thumped my forehead on the counter-top. "Why?" I asked no-one in particular. "Huh? Why must my day start so badly?"

"Because you never think before you act, Starman." Clearly, Scott had forgotten the meaning of _rhetorical._

"Uh-huh." I nodded sarcastically "Sure. And who exactly do you think I learnt that from?"

The grin was back; I could see him watching me out of the corner of my eye, blue-violet irises sparkling with the look that I had seen Gordon wearing too many times to be entirely trusting. "Myself, naturally. Little brothers _always_ mimic their elder brothers."

Oh, boy; he had a point there, and he was confident of his answer, damn him. Now. How to prevent myself from actually admitting that he had cornered me, and think up a suitable way to out-manoeuvre him. _Nuh-uh._ I shook my head in defeat, realising too late that he was still watching me. It was seriously too early for this crap. And the guy had probably managed to down about three coffees before I had even emerged. I was nowhere near firing on all cylinders yet, and there my brother was; coherent and sure of himself as usual after his prolonged wakened-ness already. _Scott Carpenter: One, John Glenn: Nil. Dang._

His smile softened as I realised my defeat, and then I shook my head at him as I lifted it to stick my nose in his mug. I sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of fresh coffee beans, and looked hopefully to snaffle a sip while he was occupied with his thoughts; only to discover he had actually drained the damn thing, and that it _was_ me that he was watching try to steal his coffee, or at least the remains.

"Uh-uh." He shook his head, practically snatching it away, as if I'd actually be able to get the caffeine in my blood by inhaling the fumes.

"Hey!" I whined. "I might not need it as much as you, but jeez! I haven't had a _sip_ of it in over three weeks! How would you cope?" The puppy-dog eyes were worth a shot, weren't they?

Sadly, the guy wasn't buying it.

The smile he had was growing larger as I drew him out of whatever funk he had been in before I had come in. I considered it my good turn for the day; maybe the world would spare me a favour and let the next few hours drag a bit. The absence of vomiting would also be good, not to mention being able to keep down breakfast.

I laid my head on my arm as we lapsed into a comfortable silence.

We'd been sitting there longer than I thought; I must have been dozing, a bit. And damn Scott; he hadn't even been bothered to let me know; the sun was lighting up the room with the glow of its rising; slowly moving across the lounge now. Surely the time wasn't that far along? Damn. That meant I was that much closer to this morning's attachment to the chuck stuff than I really wanted to be.

I glared at Scott, as I heard evidence of Gordon and Dad emerging from their respective rooms in the hallway —a guy doesn't earn the family title of 'listener' for nothing, you know—. "Why'd you let me sleep?" I could've had a cup of coffee; Dad would never have noticed…!"

Scott's eyes widened in warning a fraction of a second too late for me to find much good in it.

I heard my father's rumbling voice before I saw him, and that meant that he could hear me too. "Why are you having caffeine?"

Oops…. busted…


	3. Undesirable Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.

Okay. So my whole plan of attempting to persuade my father of my innocence regarding Scott's coffee was entirely unneeded, as he immediately gathered from my slightly indignant expression and Scott's amused grin that I clearly was only _trying_ and failing rather considerably to get even the tiniest bit of caffeine. I hadn't quite realised how desperately I had become addicted to even the one, overly-sweetened mug that I had been drinking each morning. Frankly, the deprivation sucked to the ends of the earth.

As usual, neither my father nor Gordon had bothered to dress before coming for breakfast. Gordon was making me shiver just by looking at him; he wore only a set of flannel pyjama shorts and, oddly enough, a pair of socks as sleepwear. He was silent as he padded automatically over to the coffee machine and set it on again, yawning as he leaned sleepily with his back to the counter; now-grown-out auburn hair awry and mussed beneath his scratching fingers as he ran his hand through it. He really looked as though he was about ready to fall back asleep right there, but I knew that once he had had his morning cup of coffee, he would be carving up the chlorinated water in the pool like there was no tomorrow.

Dad was as usual, wearing his night-robe; a royal-blue affair that he had seriously had for the last ten years. I honestly thought it was surely riddled with enough holes to rival a block of Swiss cheese, but if the guy found it comfortable, I supposed that I seriously couldn't pick at him for it. He had a habit of hanging onto clothes, especially if they happened to have been given to him by someone he considered close to him. For example; I was completely sure that he still owned the ratty old pair of race-car slippers that Alan had given him when he was four years old, as I clearly remembered seeing them on his feet only the other day. He grinned at the look I still had on my face, and ambled over to plant himself on the stool on the other side of Scott; switching on the mobile tablet plugged to the socket in the breakfast nook in order to get his fill of the daily news bulletin.

I knew that we wouldn't be expecting Virgil or Alan out of bed for at least another three hours; Virge would most likely only emerge to hook me up to my newest bag of drugs, and then would probably make his way back to bed, where we wouldn't see him again until around noon. Alan on the other hand, probably wouldn't sleep that entire time but would probably potter around in his room, and have a go on his game system until his bottomless pit of a stomach warned him of its impending empty status. And then God help anyone who still had food in front of him, because it would then be gone before a person could shout 'Hey!'.

I was glad that Dad had told Onaha that we would look after our breakfast needs for a while; she had a great liking for cooking meals, but I knew that my stomach would not be able to cope with the smell of frying eggs and bacon. I really felt awful for being the one to make my brothers miss out on a cooked breakfast, but the lot of them had basically told me to 'shut the hell up' and that they were doing it for me; 'We don't care.' It was nice, but it didn't prevent me from feeling guilty about it.

I was proud of myself as I headed back to my bedroom some thirty minutes later to wash and dress, feeling much more relaxed and happy that the universe seemed to be heeding my wishes and my gut seemed to be settling rather nicely in the period between eating, and now. The small bowl of bland, unsweetened oatmeal had been accepted with a minimum of squirming stomach, and despite my slight nausea, it didn't seem in imminent danger of re-appearing anytime soon.

That all changed as I climbed into the shower.

My hair was gritty from a mixture of sweat, vomit-smell and the general oily-ness that is attracted after a few days without it being washed. I figured that because I really hadn't seen the point of brushing it for a while, as I seemed to have been sleeping on it and making it mussed anyway, I applied a great dollop of shampoo as the lukewarm-to hot water sluiced its way down over my shoulders. The right one had been freed as the shower served for one of my periods of physical therapy, and l lifted it carefully over my head, along with the wrap of tightly-wound plastic that covered my PICC insertion site on the other. Rubbing gently to spread the lathered, soapy foam over my growing curls, I got quite an unpleasant shock as something _slithered_ over my fingers and sloshed around in the bottom of the shower cubicle. I withdrew my hands sharply from my head, jaw twitching a little as my shoulder let out a little pang of _ouch!_ ,but my attention was solely on the white-blonde chunk of hair as it swirled gloomily around the drain.

_Fuck._

I knew that it was inevitable that it was going to occur. I was judging all of my responses this time around to my body's reactions to my last round of chemo, but it was a huge difference to expecting and then actually experiencing the side-effects.

My gut sank uncomfortably, and my thoughts tumbled heavily around each other as I thought about how drastically everything was going to change from here-on in. Completely disregarding the idea of finishing my shower, I fumbled with the taps; turning the water off before slamming the door open in a fit of irrational temper. I raggedly dried my thin body and threw a fresh pair of extremely loose boxers and a pair of pyjama bottoms on. The rapid loss of weight was something else I would have to think about, but right now I was too solely focused on this particular issue to care too much about it.

It rather felt as though I had had a large bucket of ice-water dumped on my head, as I hurriedly stumbled over to the mirror to check the damage; my blurry lines of disbelief and reality were rapidly separating, and I really preferred to what lay in the safety of the wide-band shelter of hazy denial that I still appeared to be residing in, when compared to the despair of what was swiftly being revealed to me.

 _Great._ I thought. _Just fucking great._

There was a large patch behind my left ear where the scalp was completely devoid of hair, the white showing brightly and almost luminescent against to the water darkened locks surrounding it; clearly my leaving it alone had allowed my follicles to keep their tenuous grip on my head, though I wasn't sure how long it was going to last. I found myself terrified to touch it even enough to dry it of its current state of absolutely-sopping-wet, despite the somewhat rational part of me saying adamantly that there was no way that it could all fall out at once if I gently dried it of all the water it had soaked up in its thirty-second exposure.

I was shivering with a combination of cold from the cooling water, and the shock that the new turn of events had sent me into, and I found that I didn't jump half as much as I should have as I sent the metal canister that held my shaving gear and my hairbrush –obviously unneeded now- crashing loudly to the tiled floor.

With a cry of unbridled rage that was totally and completely irrational, I flung myself across the room, paying no heed to the fact that I was leaving my sling behind, and I still had the plastic wrap on my arm; I swung the door open with a bang that was probably heard in the lounge.

I practically threw my bureau open and snatched up the closest hat I could find, jamming it upon my head and then, with a strength that came from nowhere, I kicked the drawer shut and then slammed and locked my bedroom door. I ignored the conflicting warnings of _what's the use; they've got the override code_ , and _I don't care if they can't get in_ , I pulled the covers back over my head and closed my eyes; ignoring the renewed, angry stabbing of my back and shoulder, the din of loud, confused pounding that was occurring out in the hallway, and resolutely blocked out the world beyond my own little corner of misery and nauseous stomach.


	4. Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.

The darkness of closed eyelids and blanket-over-my-head was comforting in a childish way, but unfortunately my current situation wasn't one that I could very well escape; especially when it was on my mind through all of my waking hours and through much of my sleep-filled ones as well.

Tears threatened to fall hot and fast as I screwed my eyes shut and covered my ears at the loud, frantic conversation that I could hear being conducted from the hallway beyond my closed door. I couldn't understand the words, but I knew that they were debating whether they should just barge in and completely chuck my right to have privacy to hell, but if I was being fair, I had to admit that they had probably heard the explosive noise I had made, and naturally had assumed the worst. All this had barely taken a few seconds to occur, when I heard Scott pounding on the door, asking if I was alright, and should he go and get Virgil.

I clenched my jaw in an attempt to prevent my voice shaking with the emotions that were still running hot and strong through my nerves. "I'm fine, Scott." I called, lifting my head from the supine position I had adopted so that he could hear me. I really didn't want the guy to actually realise that something was really wrong besides the obvious, and that was the best way to ensure that I was able to have enough time to come to grips with this latest drawback. I really didn't need brothers and concerned fathers hovering over me right this minute.

I heard a muffled rattling noise from the other side of the door, which indicated that my eldest brother was still attempting to force his way in, without Dad's or Virgil's aid apparently. I hadn't heard much from my father concerning any pressing need to get into my room, so I gathered that Dad had realised that it wasn't anything dangerous that had caused my throwing of solid objects and slamming of doors; it was just Scott being his usually paranoid self and not wanting me to be alone… I couldn't really blame him, considering the nightmares he'd been having that he was trying to hide from the rest of us, but tough luck brother; because I really wasn't planning on coming out anytime soon.

"John!" Scott sounded pretty much desperate now in his need to wrangle his way in; and my patience was rapidly wearing thin as I replied again to his words, grunting a little as I leant rather awkwardly on my sore shoulder, the dampness of my arms and chest catching slightly on the bed-sheets as I shifted around to face the direction of my bedroom door.

"GO AWAY!" There. That should do it.

"John? Please open the door, man. What's wrong?" Nope. No chance.

My father had obviously given up, as there was the sound of footsteps heading away from the door that concealed me from the glare that I knew that Scott was sending my way, but I really didn't care; so long as the guy shut up long enough to leave me in some kind of peace to digest the latest of my emerging side-effects. How in the hell I was supposed to deal with this one, when I was so effing scared that I was going to lose this battle, if I was already so ill after only three weeks of treatment? What was I going to be like in three months, even if I lived until then?

As that thought scrolled its merry way across my brain like so many lines of assorted data-calibration script, I found that I couldn't any longer keep the fiercely quashed tears of terror, stress and the worry about my family from spilling over. The dam in my chest finally broke as the last of the relative fog I had been living in melted away to reveal the whole, too-entirely-clear picture of what I was facing. I didn't know why it had taken so long for the haze that I had been living in to reveal everything it should have to me; maybe it was a combination of the events from spring break and the head injury I had sustained. Maybe my mind had liked that state of absentness so much, it had been reluctant to allow itself to register anything than the immediate steps it took to sustain day-to-day life. It was no goddamned wonder that my family was as worried about me as they were; I must have been acting like anything other than their brother, if it had taken until now for me to realise exactly how unlike myself I had been for the past few weeks. That was perhaps the thing that scared me most of all.

The sobs tore through me, and I curled myself into the tightest possible ball that I could manage, careful even in my anguished state not to catch my line on anything, nor bump my unprotected shoulder in the process. It was that discovery of the complete panic that I was sending my brothers into, with my more-than-usual withdrawal from the rest of them, that made me croak at my brother to open the door. I had heard the noises from outside the door cease as I tried to curb the agony unfurling itself from within my chest, wrapping insidious claws about my heart and lungs as I fought for control of my own emotions. I heard the beeping from the vicinity of the door as it confirmed the validity of the access code, and then he was there.

I took a second to wonder why exactly my father would have given my brother the code and then left him alone, but then all I had left was gratitude as I realised that the dork had stood there with temptation dangling in front of his eyes, and yet he had waited until I had given him permission to come into my private space. For Scott, that was a mammoth achievement when any of us younger brothers were concerned. Usually it wouldn't take anything up to and including a nuclear war to prevent him from coming to our 'rescue', but he had done it for me, and that was something that I needed to acknowledge.

I saw instant clarity appear in his eyes as he took in my half-dressed state and the fact that I had made a damp puddle in the centre of the bed; now that I thought of it, it was rather wet and uncomfortable, and the sheets were sticking to the warmed plastic still wrapped firmly about my elbow. Scott cocked his head slightly to the side, asking silent permission to assist me, and I nodded resignedly as he leaned over to help detangle me from the bedcovers; steadfastly ignoring my drying of the tears in deference to the knowledge of what I usually preferred when showing any emotions.

I really, really didn't know how that kind of thing worked, but apparently my body then decided that my breakdown was a really marvelous time to stage a revolt. There was really no time for me to even think about sprinting for the bathroom, just the merest shift in perspective from reclined to sitting was just enough for my breakfast to re-emerge all over the carpet, my brother and my bare chest. The disgustingly warm sensation of regurgitated oatmeal was enough to send me gagging again; even Scott looked rather pale as he nevertheless supported me to my feet, to guide me, still heaving pathetically to lean over the toilet for the second time in an hour and a half.

He gave me a bit of comfort by wordlessly squeezing my shoulder, before retreating a little to call the cavalry to help clean up both myself and the soiled carpeting.

I groaned as more bile made itself known, just as I was thinking, hopefully that the flow was beginning to cease.

My brothers; both eldest and middle then gripped me beneath the armpits, moving me and my gasping body back to lean against the cool tile of the wall. There was a sting in the vicinity of my left arm, as I felt the sensation of something cool spreading its way from the focus point in my upper limb.

I focused my eyes blearily on my younger brother, who looked barely more awake than me as he answered the question that I was too queasy to ask of him myself.

"It's just Zofran for the nausea, John." He said, hair awry and hazel eyes somewhat alert despite the earlier wake-up time than usual. "I need to move you to the lounge for your infusion, unless you want to stay in here today?"

Virgil had barely said the words before I was shaking my head. As much as I was sick as a dog right now, and could barely nod my head for fear of throwing up again, there was no way I was going to be isolated in here, no matter my intentions of ten minutes ago.

After assisting me into a fresh set of pajamas and tactfully ignoring the obvious patch of missing hair from the side of my head by the simple expedient of pulling the knit cap down properly over the remaining curls, my brothers assisted me down the hallway and into the lounge, where I was carefully eased back onto the sole remaining couch in preparation for Virgil to hook me up to the infusion machine that held the next twelve hours' dose of my chemotherapy meds.

I was feeling pretty washed-out by then, so with the plastic chuck-bowl within easy reach on the table near me, as well as a thermos of lemon tea, I settled beneath the thick blanket, into an uneasy sleep.

I was jerked awake rather abruptly, an interminable amount of time later with a nauseous stomach, a splitting headache, and raised-but-trying-in-vain-to-be-quiet voices jouncing around in my brain.

"What do they mean; 'International Rescue needs to testify?'" That was Scott; voice raised in that incredulous tone he had when it meant that heads would be rolling imminently. "We have a sick and injured team member, all our nerves are shot, as well as our machines, and those idiots want us to testify against that son-of-a-bitch?"

I cringed as two things registered; one: I was _this_ close to exploding with vomit, and two: my head was just about to implode.

Numerous things happened at once, and I got dizzy with the suddenness of it all.

My head spun with vertigo as I swiped blindly for the sick-bowl, and I heard someone swear as my hand sent something flying. There was an almighty bang as whatever-it-was shattered, and with the accompanying throb from my aching brain, there came a sudden pressure in my sinuses.

I opened my eyes to see a dizzying vortex of familiar faces; spinning, hazy and unfocused, before a gushing sensation emerged from above my lip, flooding my mouth with a coppery tang.

I instinctively clapped my hands to my face; only to meet a sticky liquid instead of dry skin. Drawing my hands dizzily away from my mouth, I was a little bemused to see shocking scarlet awash with phlegm and spit liberally coating my fingers.

There was the pressure everywhere on my body; arms heaving me into an upright position, and then I felt someone push my head down to rest between my knees, a cloth wadded against the blood streaming from my nose, though I frowned confusedly as I thought; _aren't I supposed to tip my head back?_

The only other thought I managed to locate within my addled and intensely terrified mind was ' _What the hell is happening to me?_ '


	5. Scarlet Haze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.

Ten minutes later, and the flow of blood from my nostrils wasn't slowing down at all. I was well past light-headed, and had almost totally transversed the line separating clarity from confusion, and I was falling ever faster. Rational and coherent thinking had long since fled, and there was nothing on my mind more than attempting —rather uselessly I might add— to try and quash the growing need to empty my stomach across my lap and on the hardwood floor.

I could tell that Virgil and Dad were getting especially worried about the prolonged epistaxis; there _was_ a reason why my nose was bleeding, but I sadly unable to use my thoughts enough to adequately work out why. Virgil seemed to have a more substantial idea; and I listened with one ear, trying to at least stay somewhat in the loop where my own body was concerned.

My brother's voice was at my ear, asking me quietly if I was feeling any better. I shook my head weakly in protest, flinching as my head clanged with the sound of a steel drum reverberating within my skull. I kept my head down, left arm aching as I kept the wadded material over my nose, breathing heavily through my mouth as I tried not to gag at the taste of coppery blood. Someone had since wiped my chin and blood-soaked hands with a number of wet-wipes; the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol was strong in my nostrils despite the stench of blood, and on the top of my tongue, rapidly thickening where I had swallowed reflexively to try and clear my mouth when it had run down the back of my throat.

I wasn't totally aware of who exactly was in the room with me. I could only go by voices as a judge as to who was there, as the majority of my view was either the insides of my eyelids or the polished wood floor as I stared at it, unwilling to lift my head just yet; not to mention that my neck seemed to have cramped its way into oblivion in the first place. Hot tears of pain, fear and exhaustion leaked from the corners of my eyes, and I hiccupped slightly as someone gently indicated for me to tip my head back, and then they placed a damp cloth over my forehead. I felt the same set of hands pry my own fingers back from my face to check the status of my nose; but if they'd just have asked me, I could have clearly told them that it was still leaking copious amounts of hot, sticky red liquid, despite their most careful ministrations. A fresh cloth was placed in front of my face, and my left hand was tasked with holding it up to my nose, as someone told me softly that they were going to manipulate my bad arm back into the sling, to support it against any other wild jumps that I was going to have that may otherwise injure it further.

I think I had zoned a little, because after a little flutter of time that seemed wholly unequal to coherency, I heard both one of the most welcome and most feared voices that I ever wanted to face.

I blinked owlishly as I heard Dr Kingston's voice suddenly reach my ears, and l looked up blearily to see Gordon and Scott on either side of me, arms tucked behind my body as they supported the tiny amount of weight that I held as I leaned against them; tired to the bone, and very much wishing to sleep for much more than a thousand years, if it weren't for the river that was still gushing from my nose.

There was a lot of confusion; from my end at least, as I suddenly found myself being lifted carefully onto my side on an anti-grav stretcher; someone still assisting me in holding the blood-soaked rag to my face.

My stomach swished uncomfortably, as the cart travelled to what I presumed was the infirmary. I realised that I must be moving; but yet, there was no possible reason why my head was pounding and feeling as heavy as it did, nor was there one for the fact that I was unable to even think without blacking out each time I tried. I must have lost a lot of blood.

There was a loud impression of sound and noise that was abruptly cut off, as the door to the infirmary closed, leaving only Dr Kingston's phone-call-ified voice, and those of Virgil and Brains as they went through the steps of apparently sticking me in the arm with another damned needle.

I blearily tried to move my arm and also, the rest of my body away from the threat of yet another stick, but Virgil wasn't having it; firmly taking the aforementioned arm and laying it on the bed, ignoring my groan of annoyance and _dear-God-just-let-me-sleep_ , giving me a sharp jab, though I knew that he meant to be gentle. Despite my squirming, despite pain and exhaustion, there was warmth flooding into my arm, rather than chilly cold of pain relievers, though they soon followed, and then I realised exactly what kind of procedure that was being performed on me.

I was receiving a blood transfusion.

Due to the extremely good chance of us brothers managing to seriously injure ourselves on the rescues we undertook, each of us had our own personal store of blood in our own types that we had had taken from our veins frequently, as well as mixed bags of specially-mixed synthetic types, just to be sure.

The lightheaded-ness that I was experiencing was slowly beginning to recede with the replacement of all the blood I had lost, as I heard the quick exchange of words coming from both Virgil and Dr Kingston, and I heard a word that immediately put me in a frame of realising what had happened to me this time.

Thrombocytopenia; or low platelets in my blood. Platelets were the sticky-centred microscopic cells that enabled a person's blood to clot. The chemo regimen that I was on this time around was, as Dr Kingston had said; a stronger kind of one that I had been through before, so it was inevitable that there were going to be slightly different side-effects this time around.

My head was much clearer now, and I could feel the gush of blood ceasing to a trickle; clearly after conferencing with my doctor, my brother had administered something to help my body begin to clot the weakened vessels in my nose. It was a welcome relief from the aching that my sinuses had been giving me, and it allowed me to clearly see my surroundings for the first time in fifteen minutes.

I was reclined in a seated position on pillows in one of the infirmary beds; my med line still trailing from my left arm, and Brains was still pinching my nose to stop the flow of blood. I could see the rest of my family gathered anxiously outside the viewing window, and I gave them all a weak smile as I felt a little colour come back into my clammy-pale cheeks.

"Ah." Virgil grinned at me in relief, turning from where I could see him conversing with the doctor on the screen on the wall; a connection to the vid-phone in the lounge usually reserved for me so that I could talk to my brothers when I was up on 'Five, and they were incarcerated in here due to injury or illness; both of which we often saw a lot of around here. "How are you feeling now, John?"

I blinked at him, a little dazedly, still a little confused as to why the doctor was watching me so closely from his vantage point on the wall.

My brother looked at me, smiled understandingly at my lack of response, and then gestured for me to stay put, while he meanwhile waved to Dad, Scott and the other boys to come in, as well as Fermat, who had evidently come racing with his father when it appeared that Virgil was going to need Brains' help.

Once everyone was settled around the room, Dr Kingston cleared his throat in preparation to speak, and I wondered if what he was going to say was about to annoy me to all hell.

My dad, seemingly able to detect and read thoughts at a glance, shot a look over at me as if to say 'Be quiet John, because I honestly don't care what you say, but you will be doing what the doctor says, like it or not….'

I knew then that my father knew what he was going to say, and I didn't like it at all.


	6. Cognitive Dysfunction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.

Dr Kingston looked, for lack of a better word, extremely worried as he ran his gaze over my dishevelled form; his green eyes darkened as he took in the pallor that I knew was still evident on my cheeks, and the dark bags that I knew were hanging beneath my own blue eyes. The thinness of my body —that I otherwise ignored most of the time— was a problem to me as gapingly large as the San-Andreas fault right now. It made me feel extremely self-conscious, pulling the blanket close to my chest. There was also the fact that I had a headache of epic proportions thumping between my temples, and I wasn't really able to focus on the words he was saying, though I was trying my damn hardest to do so.

"John." He said, his lips thin over the steeple he had created with his hands, looking me square in the face as I blinked at him, trying to keep my scattered brain from losing track of the conversation. It was important, but obviously I hadn't properly cottoned on yet. "I really am worried about you at the moment. As your next of kin, your father has been keeping me up to date with your progress, and frankly I am concerned about how your body is reacting to the meds. Have you had any effects that you haven't told anyone about? This is not a very agreeable way to do it, I know, John— but I really need to know in case we need to alter the duration and way of administering them."

I found myself getting a little lost with the meaning of his question, which really scared me, because I had never before had trouble divining what people meant; even when I was sleep-deprived and concussed. Realising that I wasn't quite with the program, Scott turned me to face him, resolutely ignoring the rest of the family, who seemed both worried and interested as to what was going on in my head, in order to be able to provide me with a modicum of comfort. I was reminded irresistibly of when I was a little kid, and couldn't understand why my classmates were so dead-set against wanting to be friends with me; calling me names and excluding me so much that I was afraid to go to school because I couldn't spend all day with my eldest brother.

"John." Worry-widened cobalt-purple eyes gazed into mine, trying to find a certain kind of answer to an unanswered question that I seemed to be asking him, without even realising. "Dr Kingston wants to know if you haven't been telling us about anything. Is there?"

Gratitude for my brother's patience with me, and the awful feeling that there was something that I hadn't been informing them of swirling within my gut, I nodded my head shamefully; watching as Scott's eyes widened again with hurt, and then he wrapped an arm around my shoulders instead, sitting beside me on the bed with a squeeze that was gentle enough not to cause pain, but firm enough that it was enough for me to feel safe enough to respond without freaking out. Some habits never went away, no matter how much we wished them to. I lowered my eyes to my lap to avoid the sensation of all the attention from overwhelming me, but I wasn't entirely successful.

"I-I've just been feeling so l-l-lost and con-confused." I began; my damned childhood stutter re-emerging with my terror about my current predicament, and the stress of the last few weeks as they rose hot and tight within my chest. "I-I don't seem t-to be living in the real world h-h-half the time; I'm f-forgetting things that I've been doing, and I know that I'm not acting like John, and…" My words disintegrated into nonsense as to my utter mortification, for the second time that day, tears began streaming down my face, and I felt my ears redden as the shuddering breaths that accompany sobs began in my chest; hating the fact that I was breaking down in front of just about everyone in the house when I was trying so hard to show that I was doing okay.

I felt Scott's arms reflexively tighten around my shoulders, and I took comfort in having my closest brother's embrace close to hand; being the buffer that he had been since I was born and letting me gather enough of my nerves to enable me to continue through my anguish. When I looked up again, having screwed enough of my courage together to look Dr Kingston back in the eyes, I realised that the others had been ushered from the room. It was only Dad, Scott, Virgil and Brains left behind; most likely my dad had pushed the others out. I felt bad for Alan and Gordon; being the youngest two and hence being kicked out because of it, when I was very clearly in a state of utter breakdown was probably tearing them apart, but I couldn't very well do much to help it right now. I hoped that either Scott or Dad would find the time to talk to them later on. I would have, but I obviously, very clearly wasn't up to the task.

"I'm just so sick of n-not being me." I hitched, taking a breath to steady my shuddering heart, rubbing my eyes with my hand, like a small child, against the headache that was throbbing like a heavy rock-band had taken up residence between my ears. "I don't know if it was because I hit my head, or what, but I can't s-seem to focus on anything, and its l-like I've been living in fog. I'm just so scared; and I'm not sleeping properly. T-the station getting hit is permanently in m-my brain; and the Thunderbirds needing repairing… all those people… and the Hood…" Scott stiffened next to me, and then I froze as I realised my epic mistake. I began to shake, as I realised that I had slipped our family's greatest secret to someone —though we trusted him for my treatments— was as far as I knew, not one who was trusted enough for safekeeping of our greatest secret.

The room was silent, but not all were in as much shock as Scott, Virgil and I. Surprisingly, I noticed through the terror of my loose tongue reverberated through me —the terror of what I had just inadvertently let slip crashed over me like tidal waves— that my father did not seem angry, nor did Dr Kingston seem particularly shocked over my revelation.

Seeing that I was obviously beginning to hyperventilate, and my brothers were already moving to help me calm down, Dr Kingston spoke, his eyes knowing as he shared a look with my father. "John." He began, leaning forward as though he could reach out and lay his hand on my shoulder. Though there was a screen and over a hundred thousand miles separating us, he spoke calmly, even as my breathing was coming in agonising gasps. "It is alright John. I already know that you and your brothers are International Rescue. I know that you are the one that mans the illusive Thunderbird Five; how could you not be? Your aptitude with computers and your fixation with stars is a dead give-away, not to mention that your blood-pressure was always slightly off some appointments more than others. I'm gathering that is because of the artificial gravity?" He smiled softly and reassuringly as I began to calm; the combination of the palm rubbing between my shoulder blades and my father's nodding at the doctor's words slowing my frantic breathing, and beginning to quell the worry that was thrumming through my extremities.

I took a deep breath, nodding as the idea that I hadn't just compromised my family sank in; the tension regarding that particular worry evaporating, leaving only that of my health and my family's mental wellbeing hovering in the foreground and background respectively.

Dr Kingston looked at me; seeing the confusion that lingered within my eyes, and he seemed to come to a conclusion. He glanced at my father, who had settled into one of the chairs that surrounded the bed, and then to my brothers; Virgil who was leaning against the wall, and Scott, who still sat, as strong as a solid-steel wall at my side seemingly with no intention of moving anytime soon —at least until I gave the word.

"It appears to me that you may be suffering from what we call Chemo-brain, John." Seeing three semi-understanding and two completely confused expressions, he elaborated. "Chemo-brain is something that around twenty to thirty per-cent of chemotherapy patients suffer from, and is basically a mental fog that generates confusion and alters memory and personality, even after treatment. This seems to be a relatively mild case, John, so I do not think that we have any cause to worry. All I can recommend is that you perhaps just write things down if you don't seem to be remembering them, and that your family must just continue to be patient with you." He paused, to see if I was still following. I nodded, my heart both simultaneously falling and rising with the revelation that my mental disjointedness was going to continue, but feeling heartened that it would most likely cease once I had finished treatment.

"Moving back to my concern about your physical state, John. Are you eating enough? I know that you have been experiencing a lot of nausea, but have you been taking nutrient supplements to assist you on the days that you haven't been able to keep things down?" He directed that at Virgil and Brains, who were primarily the ones who had been assisting me with my meds, though his eyes were still firmly on me. My next-youngest brother took up the slack, seeming to realise that Brains was a little pre-occupied with the checking of my PICC line.

"He's been having a lot of trouble keeping anything but soup and toast down over the last few days." My brother reported, slipping into his professional mindset in order to detach himself from the fact that it was his brother that he was talking about. "He's been getting the vitamin and nutrient supplements as well as the IV saline solutions, though he has been able to keep the lemon tea down most of the time." Virgil's smile faded slightly as he recalled what had just happened that had warranted a call to the doctor in the first place. "That nosebleed was the first we've had. I think that the scarring from his last round has perhaps become a little raw… I remember that he used to get reflux that sometimes came out of his nose… the lining must be getting weakened."

Dr Kingston nodded thoughtfully. "That is a possible cause, Virgil; though the chemotherapy dosage may also be to blame; I'll look over the dosage and perhaps alter it, and I can also prescribe something that you can give him to help ease the sensitivity of the nasal passages; hopefully that will stop this occurring again.'

'I don't think your body is really coping all that well on its own, John." He said to me, taking a breath to brace himself for telling me something. I ceased my half-hearted contemplation of the blanket on my lap; once again pretending that nothing they were speaking about involved me, but that was shattered as the next sentence emerged from his mouth. "I suggest that when you come in the week after next for the radiation and immunotherapy treatments, that we admit you to try and build up some of your body mass. What was your weight on Monday's check?"

My mouth set in a firm line at that particular question, and how my state of freedom was riding on what I answered. Sensing that I was going to try and alter the truth, my father immediately jumped in, interrupting me before I was able to tweak it to my satisfaction.

"He was at one-fifty pounds. He's been trying to keep it somewhat level, but he's just been too sick; all that he's been able to keep down is the soup, really."

Scott, who had been fairly quiet as we discussed the proceedings, spoke then, seeing the discontent on my face, and I thought, hopefully, that I might just have someone in my corner here.

That prayer was answered.

"Maybe you could come out and stay here in order to monitor John more closely?" My brother suggested, looking the doctor in the eyes with all his considerable will, ignoring the look that my father had on his face; half contemplation, half annoyance at Scott's forthrightness.

Dr Kingston considered that, turning to the computer I could see on the left of his desk. After pulling up something, and studying it for a minute, he sighed and nodded his head. Turning to face us again, he smiled. "Yes. I don't think that that will be much of a problem, so long as your father agrees, Scott. I do not have any ongoing treatments with any patients besides John at the moment, which is fortunate. You seem to have all of the equipment that we need to help you, John; it is just a matter of having the fluids in order to help treat you properly. We will still need to go to Topeka for the radiotherapy, but I really don't see any problem; that and I will have to travel home for the check-up appointments for my other patients, and to see my family, but I think that it would work well." He then looked to my father questioningly.

My father's brow was furrowed, the lines on his forehead bunching up as he considered it. Rubbing a hand through his thinning hair, he tugged on it lightly and then let out a gusty sigh. "I'm pretty sure that I can order the things that you need to help my son, but I think that I'll probably need your authorisation to be able to ship them here. I'd like to do it with as much stealth as I possibly could; we've been able to keep John's illness under wraps so that the press haven't gotten the news yet, and this would be a way to prevent it being leaked more than we would be able to if we were travelling to Topeka every day for the hospital." He nodded satisfied as he came to his conclusion. "That will be fine. I welcome you to my home, and one of the boys would certainly be willing to fly you back and forth if you so need to at any time."

"John." Dr Kingston looked at me. "I hope you realise how lucky you are to be able to stay at home while receiving this treatment; I really am glad to be able to make you as comfortable and as healthy as possible."

I nodded sleepily as my alarm at having to be hospitalised so far from home ceased dramatically, along with my energy levels. The vomiting and everything else that had happened had worn me out.

There was another thought that pushed its way into my head as I closed my eyes almost involuntarily, Scott assisting me to lean gently back onto the pillows of the bed, covering me with the blankets. It was fuzzily recalled, sleep was coming too swiftly for me to be sure that I was bringing the words to mind fully, but all I could remember was the word 'sonofabitch'. I was too far slipped into exhaustion to be entirely sure, so I figured that it was better left for tomorrow; but how with it I would be by then was questionable. I was out before I could puzzle about it any further.


	7. Dark and Silent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

I felt awful when I awoke.

I know. I should really have expected it by now, having been putting up with it for weeks, and also once before, but really, you never really got used to feeling so poorly; especially after sleeping so deeply and numbly, and then waking up to feel like you haven't slept at all.

It was a little better than what I had been experiencing lately, but the stuff that was occurring was still unbearably sucky when I was enduring it anyway.

My mouth was dry, my lips were cracked, and the ear-splitting rock-band had returned for a second sell-out performance in the venue that was my brain. I was rather confused as to why I had awoken, having known how much medication I currently had swimming through my system. It should by all means have left me snoring for hours yet. But then, when I took stock of my body, it was entirely clear what the problem was.

I looked around blearily, wondering why exactly my bed was entirely on the wrong wall of the room, and why, when I moved my left arm, it refused to yield; giving me only a sharp tug from the crook of my elbow to let me know what it was tethered to. I took in the pole next to the bed, and the number of bags it contained; their lines feeding their contents into my worn body, and then it registered in my brain.

Great. I groaned. Just what I wanted for Christmas…. An IV line.

I squinted a little; taking in my surrounds, the pieces coming together as I realised that I was still in the infirmary. It was as dark as night; all of the lights were off but for the one shining from beneath the door into the corridor, but my internal clock was clearly telling me that it wasn't anywhere near time for bed. I saw the clock on the wall —hands illuminated by the luminous face— and I realised that I had been asleep for only four hours.

Shifting a little as my need increased, I looked around a little; jumping in place as my eyes met those of someone I hadn't expected to see, lurking in the shadows out of my sight over the edge of my bed as they then came into my peripheral vision.

"Gordon!" I cried, sagging a little as my pounding heart calmed a little; the kid had a really bad habit of sneaking up on people, even when he wasn't consciously intending to. "What are you doing in here?"

My brother was exhausted. Even through dimness and past eyelids that felt like they were stuck together with superglue, I could see the bags beneath his green eyes, and the tense way that he was holding his shoulders, and I knew that he wasn't really okay at all —despite the way he shook his head in the negative to the silent question I had asked alongside the verbal one.

Gordon seemed either unwilling, or was perhaps unable to answer my spoken query, raising an eyebrow at me when I shifted slightly, now wanting to not go where I had been planning to; not when I had a potential chance to capture and interrogate him. I really didn't want to let him go, because I knew that I would never catch him if he decided he didn't want to talk.

Unfortunately, I was blessed with both an overly-full bladder, and a sibling currently completely unresponsive to questions.

"Can you get Virge then, please?" I asked him finally, indicating that there was something I needed to do, and it was going to be hard enough already without having to trail wires and metal poles in my wake. I still hadn't come to a plausible conclusion as to why he had been hanging around in the dark while I was sleeping, but I would get to that in a minute. Right now I needed to move.

He nodded, still not having said a word. I could barely see in the low light in the room, but I was able make out the way that he was moving as he headed out of the room, and it definitely explained some of the silence my brother was exhibiting.

Deciding while I was waiting —as I determinedly ignored the unpleasant signals I was being given, I should probably begin getting ready to move— I began to sit up, taking care not to pull out the tubes that had been linked to the PICC line. I had only been aware of certain parts of my body, so I was taken fairly by surprise at the full feeling in my gut, as well as the usual sense of nausea, though it was not immediately worrying that my body would be in danger of ejecting its contents at the present time. Clearly I had been given something to assist me in keeping things down. It was obviously stronger; as movement didn't seem indicative of an imminent explosion, but I found myself being cautious nonetheless, as I huddled beneath the blanket upon realising how achingly cold I suddenly was.

By then, my second and third brothers had returned; Gordon hanging back as Virgil approached me with a question in his eyes that I was all too willing to answer, despite my embarrassment.

"I need to pee." I told him bluntly, looking at Gordon out of the corner of my eye as I said it, hoping that my wide-open invitation for a quip or cheeky remark would be capitalised upon. I was simultaneously worried and surprised when he barely even looked at me. He had lowered himself stiffly onto the edge of the next bed in the row; poker-straight and tense, and I was worried by his pallor as the lights above my head flickered on.

Virgil, who had been visually examining my appearance; clearly still concerned at something that was showing in my face, saw where my gaze was directed, as he worked on detaching me from the almost-empty bag of fluids that I was hooked up to, and glanced at our younger brother with concern in his eyes.

"I need to put you straight back on the red-labelled one." He told me, handing me the bag that contained the pouch of chemotherapy meds that allowed me to be more mobile. "But I really don't see any reason why you shouldn't be able to head back to your room." He smiled at me encouragingly, but secretly raised an eyebrow questioningly at Gordon's form, asking something I had no answer to as yet.

As I made my slow, tired way to the bathroom; socked feet heavy, and my head aching, but stomach calm, I heard Virgil speak lowly to Gordon, but I still heard nothing from my second-youngest brother, and that made me extremely worried.

I had gathered from watching him that he was moving more stiffly than usual, and I was wondering if he had somehow strained his back again from all of the swimming he had been doing, but as I emerged from the tiny bathroom situated through the door on the far end of the ward, I was surprised to see that Gordon had been ushered into one of the beds on the opposite side of the room, and that there was also a few people who were there who hadn't been a few minutes ago.

"What's going on?" I asked worriedly, beginning to shuffle my ungainly way across the room to where my father, Scott and Virgil stood around Gordon. He was lying flat on the bed, tense against the blankets beneath him; face slightly damp with sweat and hands clenching the sides of the mattress.

Scott turned to look at me; eyes filled with worry over the both of us, and the tiredness from his early morning honestly making him look like utter crap. "He's gone and wrenched his back; too much swimming and not enough sleep. And he's been taking the painkillers without letting us know."

I sighed. Damn it. The kid must have been in pain if he was raiding the med cabinet.

When he'd been undergoing his long recovery from his hydrofoil accident two-and-a-half years ago, Gordon had been on such a high dosage of painkillers that he had become addicted to them in the end, and had had to undergo mild rehabilitation to enable him to be properly weaned off of them. Now, he only took meds for pain if it was bordering on unbearable, and then it was only Panadol or Ibuprofren at the most, unless someone forced him into taking something stronger.

Virgil looked up at our dad from where he was examining the thermometer that he had removed from our brother's ear. He sighed as he saw the result, running his fingers through his hair. "How long have you been like this?" he asked the red-head. "You shouldn't have a fever, even if it's low!"

Gordon, having screwed his eyes shut, and was biting his lip through another painful spasm, hissed through his teeth as the pain ceased enough for him to answer. "A few hours; I wrenched something in the pool. I went to sleep it off, but I couldn't settle." He breathed in sharply as another wave engulfed him, and I winced in sympathy, as my own back gave a twinge of its own.

I shuffled forward to lean on the end of the bed; the simple walk having exhausted me, but I wasn't willing to return to my own until I was sure that my little brother was going to be alright.

My father sighed as Virgil looked over at him, running a hand over his head and bunching his fingers in the hair at the base of his neck, tapping thoughtfully with his other hand on the table near the bed as he contemplated what to do.

"Can you check for infection?" he asked finally, looking down at Gordon in concern, as he tightened his grip on the sheets on either side of him, gasping sharply as the muscles clenched painfully. "I'm hoping there isn't one, and it's just his body reacting to the stress, but we can't take a risk with you the way you are at the moment, John."

I nodded understandingly, and I took that as my cue to head back to my own bed. As much as I would prefer to be with my brother, if there was any chance he may be coming down with something, I had to avoid infection as much as I could.

Leaning over to pat him on his leg, and getting a tight look in return as Virgil set about examining him further, I shared a concerned look with Scott as Dad watched on.

If Gordon was becoming sick with something, it was going to make life on the island a lot more complicated.


	8. Morning Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

I knew that this time, it was a more realistic point of the day to be waking up; my body clock was informing me that it was more early morning than anything, but it was a much more appropriate time today. I was in the land of the awakened, but now I needed to attempt to bully my aching head into believing that it would really be a great time to begin to wake up properly.

I remembered that I was in the infirmary, and that I could have gone back to my own bedroom. Upon realising just how tired I was however, I had decided that I just couldn't face the long trek down the hall, when there was a perfectly comfortable and still-warm bed right there. Besides that, I couldn't remember anything that had happened after I had gotten myself comfortable; I must have gone back to sleep immediately. But speaking of what had occurred before I had conked….

My still-shut eyes opened rapidly, and I found myself squinting across the room to the bed where Gordon had been lying last night. The sunlight was making its determined way across the room, sending cheery beams of brightness across the beds and the various cupboards that lined two of the walls. I hoped that it was a clue that today was going to turn out well. My head was slightly stuffy, and I was feeling a bit off; but I was optimistic.

It was a start.

As my eyes roamed down the wall from the window, I was both surprised and pleased to find the bed empty and remade, but there was also a little bit of worry that my brother was sick, and that was why he wasn't in the room, for fear of giving me whatever he had come down with.

I wasn't left much time to contemplate the reason why there was no Gordon, by said brother's re-entrance back into the room. His movements much more reserved than usual, but his bearing seemed a lot more cheerful than how he had been the last time I had seen him. His face was still laced with discomfort, and he was still holding himself rather stiffly, but the smile on his face was all Gordon Tracy, and I found myself immediately suspicious of what the kid had done this time. He usually avoided this area like the plague, unless it was a situation like last night; there was also the fact that his current expression was one that was usually associated with mayhem, and Gordon-Cooper-Tracy-style mischief. He seemed to be alright, and I breathed a sigh of relief that he was healthy. I knew that he was pretty much fine if the smirk he wore was anything to go by.

"Okay, Kid." I said, looking at him in apprehension, wondering idly if I should even be asking. "What did you do?"

He grinned. I was glad to see it; there was just something terrible about a brother who was out of sorts, and Gordon was one of the worst when he was in a funk. "Let's just say that when Virgil gets in the shower, he might just find an unpleasant surprise in the shampoo bottle."

I groaned a little, imagining how Virgil was going to react when the effects of Gordon's latest prank became apparent. I could only imagine the colour that he might have used this time; probably purple or orange or something equally as hideous. I chuckled to myself as I thought of how amusing it was that Virgil was perfectly happy using outrageous colours on his canvas, but put something even just the tiniest bit out of the ordinary on his clothes or in his hair, he went completely nuts.

I just shook my head, not bothering to even ask for details in case I was somehow able to be implicated in the design and execution of Gordon's little plan. I had to admit, that it would be a brilliant move if I were ever to consider it; I could foist the blame for it off onto Gordon without anyone being any the wiser. But that involved using creativity, and it seemed sadly, that Virgil, Alan and the redhead had gotten the better end of the gene pool in that particular area. Neither Scott nor I had been particularly imaginative in our childhoods; it was all due to the combined efforts of the two of them that our games were ever so adventurous and as downright dangerous as they sometimes were.

I let out a fond chuckle as I remembered the time that a six-year-old Gordon had managed to persuade Scott that he should let him tie him and myself firmly to the trees in the yard of the homestead, while he and Virgil acted out the parts of the brave and honourable cowboy sheriffs that had captured the nasty old Indians. The redhead and the chestnut-haired eight-year-old had then proceeded to leave us tied there in the summer heat for at least two hours.

We had both been hungry, antsy, and slightly sunburned when Virgil finally took pity on us gullible souls, and set us loose, only for us to discover the apparent 'misplacement' of the full jar of cookies that had been left on the kitchen counter. Needless to say, the pair of boys with raging stomach-aches had executed a relatively well-thought-out prank, but the aftermath wasn't quite so satisfying when they had two irritated elder brothers after them, as well as a grandmother who was mad as a scalded rabbit over the disappearance of the night's dessert.

I just shook my head at my brother. I had initially wanted him to go and find Virgil, but in light of the Fish's latest move, I figured that it was probably better if he stayed out of the artist's way.

Almost as if he was intending to purposefully echo my latest thought, there was a loud, inarticulate cry of rage from down the hall, as well as the loud pounding of feet.

"GORDON!" Virgil roared. "You are SO a dead man right now!"

My eyes flickered towards the doorway where my second brother's footsteps were coming from, quietening as he remembered that I could quite possibly still be sleeping, and when I looked back to where Gordon was, it was to find it empty.

There was a skidding sound against the hardwood floor, and I felt my jaw drop in a mixture of amusement and astonishment, as I saw the new hue of Virgil's hair.

Slicked wet from the water from the shower, he was dressed in shorts and a shirt that appeared to have been thrown on in great haste, and he was barefoot —which explained the squeaky sound that was made as he came to a halt at the edge of my bed. I fought hard to control the grin that I could feel flickering at the edge of my lips, but I failed astoundingly as Virgil ran his fingers agitatedly through the bright yellow spikes that were his normally well-groomed locks.

"Where is he?" Virgil snarled, upon discovering that I was indeed awake, and that he didn't appear to have disturbed me. "Where is the brat? 'Cause I swear to God, he's a dead man when I get my hands on him."

I pointed helpfully towards the unlatched window that led outside; the only possible escape route besides the door, while knowing exactly where my second-youngest brother had hidden himself. As Virgil went tearing back through the entrance to the hall, hell-bent on capturing the menace we called our little brother, I called out to him cheerfully before he was out of earshot. "Think of it this way, Virge! At least this time, you match Thunderbird Four!" I sniggered. "And don't forget about your patient in your mission for revenge!"

A one-finger salute reappeared around the doorway at that, and I snorted aloud as Virgil's hand was whacked into the frame, as his legs set off faster than his arm could retreat. Then there was a split-second of silence before the giggles began, from both myself and my hidden guest.

I was surprised that Gordon had stayed quiet for as long as he had; but coming out from his hiding place behind the curtains that usually surrounded each bed, he almost collapsed with laughter at the look Virgil had had on his face.

Priceless. Absolutely priceless! Gordon Tracy was on the way back.


	9. In the Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

I didn't know why, but for some reason, Gordon seemed to find the colour of Virgil's hair hilarious to a much larger extent than I had. Looking at Gordon, though, as he stood doubled over, his face bright red and his hands clutching at his aching sides, I was forced to consider the possibility that he was crossing the line from giggly and amused, into full-blown-hysterical-panic-attack territory.

It was a well-known fact that the redhead usually turned to pranks and humour when he wanted to release tension, but it sometimes came to the point where even Gordon couldn't diffuse the situation with his wit. It appeared that this was one of the times where he was going to collapse in a heap, where even he wasn't even able to preserve a sense of self-comfort. I should have known that it wouldn't be this easy for my family.

I hadn't seen him this off since he had been in hospital after his accident. It had been a struggle for the then-sixteen-year-old to face the possibility that he might just end up spending his life as a paraplegic. Four months stuck in a hospital bed, and then a further two confined to the villa here on the island was enough for him to break down more than once. He and I were really the only ones who really know how terrifying it was to face a life-threatening experience of that sort; the things we had both gone through in our lives were unexplainably daunting. We had both faced the possibility of a life-altering illness or injury that could have and still could quite possibly shorten or lessen the quality of our lifespans. It was completely different to that of the issues of being injured and lost in enemy territory, for instance. That did not lessen Scott's experience in Afghanistan, of course, no, not at all - but health and the considerable worries that they brought to the injured party, and that of their bodies was vastly different to the ones Scotty had faced all those months ago.

Gordon was still going strong; breaths coming in ever more desperate gasps, and I felt myself tensing immediately, little flashes of scary-electric alarm zapping through me as he began to hitch in increasingly more violent wheezes, taking more than one squeaky-sputter breath as he tried to draw air.

I sprang immediately into action; completely disregarding the presence of my IV, and the lurching of my previously-quiet stomach. I lunged off of the bed, half-catching myself on the table beside me, grabbing Gordon's shoulders and forcing him with his collapsing knees and shaky-gasp breaths into a seated position on the bed behind him. Really, I was surprised and alarmed that this hadn't occurred long before now. There obviously hadn't been a trigger point to his aftermath yet, but clearly his asthma had decided that this was a good time to do so; forcing him into an attack in order to really freak the both of us out.

"Where's your inhaler, Gordon?" I asked him urgently, his fear-widened green eyes locking onto mine, as well as his trembling fingers as they clenched spasmodically around my free arm.

He didn't seem able to form words, he was gripping my wrist so tight that I could already feel it bruising, but his hand twitched shakily towards his shorts pocket; he seemed too unstable to fish it out himself. Growing more worried and scared myself as the seconds were passing, watching his face pale dramatically as he grew increasingly more frantic, I yanked myself from his grip, and grabbed for his medication, my hands choosing precisely the wrong time to misbehave as they fumbled their way into the loose pocket.

"VIRGIL!" I yelled, a little hoarsely than I really wanted right now —my voice raw from all the throwing up I had been doing. "Breathe on that, Gordy." I told my brother, unlocking the cap and preparing the dose, placing it between my brother's open lips. "VIRGIL! SCOTT! Get down here!" Not hearing any feet coming down the hall, I took my chances in leaving Gordon for a second to race and slam my hand on the call switch centered on the wall, tripping over my chemo-and-fatigue-clumsy feet as I tried to move with more haste than I had in me at the moment. Uh-huh. Screw the whole concept of adrenaline to hell right now.

There was a banshee-loud wailing over the comm. system that I determinedly ignored, forcing another dose into a brother who had gone alarmingly white all of a sudden; rubbery-limbed and weighing something akin to a tonne of bricks when you factored in the level of diminished strength I had been experiencing. Clearly, the medication wasn't helping much, and that completely terrified me to an extent I wasn't able to put clearly into words, even if I had time to register such feelings right then.

There was a sudden _bang-crash-shudder_ sound from behind me, as all our brothers, Dad and Brains came barrelling in; Virgil immediately demanding to know _what the hell is going on_? His hair colour was almost mocking in the way it had added to the reasons why Gordon was having an asthma attack worse than he had had in years.

He took in Gordon's shaky-wobble body, and the glazed-terror look that was in his eyes, and immediately pushed me aside, into Scott's grip.

I felt a little shaky myself. I was still weak from the blood-loss yesterday, and hadn't had much to sustain me in the interim, so I wasn't really surprised to feel Scott basically forcing me to put my head between my knees. I wondered when I had gotten so lightheaded, but I managed to convince myself that it was more than worth it to try and fight through it, for I needed to know how Gordon was doing. I could definitely still hear the not-easing wheeze of his desperate lungs as he tried to bring his breathing back under control. It was frightening. I was desperately trying to fight against Scott's hands, but it was a losing battle as my already exhausted body put the kibosh on that idea, slumping wearily within the supportive circle of my elder brother's arms.

I hated not being able to help my second-youngest brother; I knew what to do, as I too had suffered from chronic asthma as a child, but I was too off at the minute to even try to offer my assistance. I had managed to grow out of it: Gordon had been told that he was going to have it for the rest of his life. It was I that suggested that he take up swimming, because it opened up the airways, but in times of stress —as these past few weeks was definitely classed as— it never seemed to do much to help.

I just wanted to know that he was okay, but as I listened to the more frantic questions from the rest of them on what they should do to assist, I knew that in my current state of _oh-my-God-world-please-stop-spinning_ , that I really didn't have a hope, even if I managed to find even a hint of an idea of what _I_ could possibly do.


	10. Breathless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

My heart was sitting up somewhere behind my tonsils as I slumped involuntarily on my bed in the infirmary. It seemed as though Gordon's breathing was progressively getting worse, not better, and that was scary. It seemed as though the thoughts that were rushing through my brother's head were too overwhelming, and kept him stuck in the state of terror that had started his episode off in the first place. If I had to hazard a guess, I would have to say that it was his memories of the first day of spring break that was keeping him in that trap, and the guy had suppressed it for so long that it was hindering his ability to cope. I could see him fighting against it nevertheless, trying desperately to regain control of an increasingly desperate situation.

I had lifted my head experimentally, despite the dizziness and the sick feelings of terror and illness in my stomach, to peer at my redheaded brother through a haze of spinning world and thumping head. The thin line of skin that surrounded Gordon's lips was turning whitish-blue and the areas at the edges of his eyes at the temples were pinching as he attempted to calm himself down enough to take an adequate breath.

The most vivid of the many times he had had an attack as serious as this one was shaping up to be, was when he was ten years old, and we had just lost Mom. I had been this close to joining him in the gasping-for-breath-oh-my-God-I-feel-sick-ness, but for the sake of my almost-youngest brother, I had managed to haul myself back from the edge. I had managed to calm down to an adequate level to be able to breathe somewhat normally, and had then assisted Gordon while Scott had taken care of twelve-year-old Virgil and six-year-old Alan, despite his own weakness from nearly being buried alive. He had almost died on that occasion, and that seriously gave me a bad idea of how this could possibly turn out, if he _didn't-start-breathing-right-goddamn-now_!

I was horribly transfixed by the white-sheet paleness of my brother's face. Usually so bright-cheeked with humour and the energy needed to sprint away from vengeful brothers, it was scary to see it devoid of all colour. What made it worse that he was so silent. From the time he had begun to realise that when he opened his mouth, sounds would emerge, the kid had never once shut up for more than a few hours at a time. It was only in the past few weeks that I was able to recall a time that he had ever been so unutterably silent, not counting the period that he had been in the coma after the crash. We never spoke about that. There were reminders enough of all the times we had been faced with the possibility of losing a family member, and it was unthinkable that we might lose him now, over something so stupidly simple.

I was so preoccupied with watching the shallow jerks of Gordon's chest rising and falling, that I didn't properly hear Brains' stuttered voice questioning me on how long my brother had been in that state before I had called them. It was sharp in my ears, and I fumbled with my words as my horror rose bile-like in my throat, with the realisation that it had been almost been five minutes now since Gordon had begun having trouble.

"About… a minute…." I choked out, as Virgil suddenly decided that whatever he had been doing wasn't enough to help Gordon. He barked at Dad to _hurry up_ and get the canister of oxygen, and the mask that went with it. It was then that I knew that we were in big trouble.

Gordon was in rapid-onset _status asthmaticus_. In basic terms —and it was terrifying in its simplicity—; my brother was going into acute respiratory failure.

It was not an uncommon occurrence either, especially when the condition affected a person as badly as it did Gordon. There had been many times in our early years, and all through our teens that he had ended up in the hospital because his peak-flow reading was so far below normal; many times where he was unable to participate in sports because he couldn't fill his lungs. It was only in the swimming pool that he was able to let his full potential out, because of the rhythmic breathing and smooth strokes that didn't make him force air into sensitive lungs.

The Ventolin-based spray that was his inhaler clearly wasn't having an effect; he shouldn't have had anywhere near the twelve puffs that he had received, and was obviously the reason why we needed the oxygen tank. As our father and Brains assisted Gordon into a semi-forward position, his body shaking as he tried to force air into the closing passage of his trachea, Virgil carefully placed the mask over his mouth and nose and switched it on. It began with a loud, stuttered humming that startled me with its loudness, even in comparison with my father's nonsensical, soothing words as he spoke into our brother's ear, and Virgil's low conversation with Brains.

It wasn't entirely immediate, but we all carefully watched as Gordon took in the first couple of breaths of the machine-circulated air. It was with relief that I watched him relax infinitesimally, though he still shuddered weakly in the grip of the two older men. I was relieved then. He would be attached to the nebuliser pump, and would be on prednisone for a while to help balance and re-extend his lung capacity, but he was going to be alright. It was then I realized how entirely alone that I was on my bed.

Alan and Scott had vanished.

I realised that I hadn't paid much attention to the Sprout over the past few days, and I was pleased that at least our eldest brother was paying attention to the fact that our family was falling apart. So far it was only Gordon and myself that had gone to pieces, but if I was to judge on what Alan was probably feeling right now, I figured that another brother had just found their breaking point. Watching someone hurt was never easy, but seeing someone you love almost die before your eyes wasn't a pleasant experience either; not by a long shot.

Alan had been trapped in the landslide with Scott that had taken our mother, and then at twelve years old had been standing alongside the rest of us as we were told in the emergency room of that Spanish hospital that Gordon might possibly not last the night. Adding the present events to what had happened with The Hood to the mix of traumatic events certainly wasn't going to be helping him in any way to resolve his feelings. I only hoped that he would allow Scott in.

Now that the crisis of my first half-hour awake was almost over, my own body decided that it wanted a share of the concern that I had been showing. Personally, I would have been much happier if I could continue to pretend that my own health problems had simply melted away for a while. Unfortunately though, there wasn't any way that I could tell it so.

The jumping around, sprinting, and just general over-excitement of the morning was obviously too much for me, as my lurching gut —previously and deliberately ignored— decided to add its two-cents worth with the sudden twisting, unpleasant sensation of violent nausea.

Trying my utmost to retch silently, I grabbed the basin on the table between the two beds, and proceeded to heave weakly into it, not much coming up besides a small bit of leftover breakfast from the day before, and an icky amount of stomach acid that didn't seem inclined to do me a favour and remain where it belonged. I didn't want to take undue attention away from Gordon, who though was now doing pretty much okay, still needed a fair bit of TLC in order to be able to function as he otherwise should be.

I swallowed shakily, as I felt warm hands rubbing my back, and I looked up to see Virgil's worn face looking back at me. I blinked tiredly, my eyes flickering towards Gordon. His breathing was still extremely labored, and he looked entirely wiped out, but he both looked and sounded a hell of a lot better than he had only two minutes ago.

Our dad looked from Gordon, to me and back again, as Brains headed off to get a damp towel and water for me to rinse my mouth and wash my face, and shook his head sadly.

"What _am_ I going to do with you? You're going to turn me grey; the lot of you!"

I chuckled weakly, grimacing a little as the burning from the vomit stung in my throat. "Too late Dad!" I pointed out the liberal cluster of grey strands already firmly at home at his temples. "You're already half-way there!"

I heard Virgil snigger, and there was a hacking, bark-like cough from where Gordon was reclined against the pillows of the bed, indicating his amusement on the matter.

We really needed to sit down and have a talk as a family, really very soon, but were getting there; one step at a time.


	11. Clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

I was very much pleased with how my day seemed to be going so far. For starters, I was still allowed to make my happy little way back to my bedroom as Virgil had said I could the night before. I did have to get him to detach my lines from the IV bags so that I could shower and dress with minimum hassle, and I ended leaving a wistful and tired-looking Gordon still tied to the nebuliser on his bed, but it was good to be out from beneath the gaze of the overly-bright lights.

I was pretty depressed to discover that I had managed to lose a fair bit more hair during the night, but I was thankful for my brothers and everyone else for being so tactful in not staring at me. I chuckled a little despite myself when I glanced in my mirror on my slow way to the shower, because I seriously looked like a half-sheared wheat field; patches missing everywhere, and the shiny bits of scalp bright and quite fully visible against the pale strands.

I was at the point where I was deliberately ignoring the declining state of my body. Already pretty much rail-thin already, as a combined result of my mother's genes, and the apparent inability to put on weight, no matter how much chocolate or sugar I consumed, I was really in no shape to be losing body mass at the rate I had been for the last half-a-dozen weeks. I knew without looking that almost all of my ribs were showing, as well as my hips and collarbones. There was also the fact that the deep bags beneath my eyes were not helping with the job of filling in the holes that my protruding cheekbones had created. But by far the most irritating thing was the thrombocytopenia. Even with the regulators that we had had stocked in the island's infirmary as a matter of principle flooding my system, —the first dose was supposed to have come into effect sometime the night before— it still didn't stop my blood vessels being temperamental. There were dark splotches of bruising that were cropping up everywhere I managed to bump anything, even lightly. Frankly, it sucked.

Since I was feeling a little less nauseous and headachey than usual —I was thankful for even the shortest of reprieves — I decided that it was well worth the effort to actually put some clothes on, rather than just replacing my sleepwear and dressing-gown and looking like I'd just crawled out of bed. It was difficult to choose clothes that weren't going to interfere with my lines and the whole issue of an immobilised arm, as well as being comfortable; but I finally settled on a thick shirt, a loose jacket, and sweatpants. I also figured that because my day seemed to be so shiny and kind of happy right now, that I'd put a cap on instead of a knitted hat, just to kind of say _you can't make me hide; this is me and stuff the fates if they don't think so!_

So I found that I was a much happier John Tracy when I ventured out of my bedroom, down the hall and into the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively at the air. I could hear the quiet voices of Alan and Scott as they came into view; sitting at the counter, discarded breakfast bowls and coffee mugs pushed up against the draining board, ready to be washed.

"Hey John." Alan looked up at me. His face was tired —like the rest of us, but the light was flickering hopefully back within them; he seemed infinitely more content then when he had been watching Gordon and his unfortunate episode earlier. Clearly, a number of things had occurred to help even out my little brother's emotional balance, and assuming from the companionable atmosphere I had walked into, there was no question as to what had at least partially assisted.

Seeing my enquiring look, Scott answered with a quirk of his lip. "We went in to see Gords. He's looking a lot better. Virge said that he'll probably be able to come out of there in an hour or two; he just wants him to take it easy for the next couple of days."

I nodded, taking a seat next to Alan, patting the kid on the shoulder as he smiled at me tentatively. He was on my good side, the one without the sling, so I held my arm out and he tucked himself contentedly into the space it presented. I gave him a comforting squeeze.

"You look happier." He told me. That was always his way and Scott's too. They both had no concept of subtlety, really. It was astounding to the extent that those two spoke without thinking. Scott didn't do it half as much as he used to, his superiors in his squadron in the 'Force wouldn't have stood for it, but Alan was still growing and learning; he'd get the hang of it eventually.

"Yeah." I said, grinning at him softly as I ruffled his hair. He scowled at me and reached up to brush the overlong bangs from where they had flopped down into his eyes. "Pain meds do that to you, Sprout."

He made a face at the nickname, but otherwise made no comment.

Scott gave a bit of a groan as he stood, spine popping as he stretched. "You want some breakfast, Johnny?" he asked, padding barefoot around the island counter to flick the switch on the coffee-maker. I wondered idly what number mug he was up to, as I nodded a little at his query.

"Just a bit of toast, thanks." No sense in antagonising the beast this early if I could help it. "Where's Dad?"

Scott had already pulled the loaf of the fresh-baked thick-crust bread out of the pantry, and was busily stuffing the pre-cut slices into the old toaster that I was sure had lived in Grandma's house before Dad had kidnapped it without any sort of ransom. He hadn't seemed to realise that he couldn't fit two in the one side like we could with the normal stuff. He was trying anyway. "He's gone to get dressed. He said he'd be out soon. Do you think Gordon would want some?"

I shrugged, making Alan wriggle a bit to maintain his position against my chest. I'd have to get him to move soon. Not only was my back beginning to protest, but me and my ungainliness seemed to be giving a warning of impending toppling —not that I really wanted to give up my personal heater though, not with how cold I was this morning. "Maybe. You'll have to ask him. Has Virgil eaten?"

"Yep." Alan grinned. "That was before he went sprinting downstairs though. He'll probably need a refill." He extricated himself from my arm, and then tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "I'm gonna go to my room. Thanks for the talk, Scott." He left, seeming a little less tense than he had lately, but still not entirely at ease. I had felt the tightness across his shoulders, but I was glad that he was opening up a little more. We'd kept him isolated at Wharton's for too long.

He was supposed to have gone back to school over two weeks ago, because his spring break had only been a week long in truth, but the current circumstances had apparently prompted Dad into considering home-schooling him. I didn't think that there was any chance would even suggest that we try and send him back to Massachusetts, not with everything that had happened lately; not only with my health, but also because of The Hood.

There. That jolted something in my memory. What was it? I sat there for a second, fiddling with the cord that ran through the hood of my jacket, but the memory I sought to clarify seemed intensely fuzzy. I could sense that it was coming closer to being in my grasp, however.

I could feel Scott watching me as I thought contemplatively, but I ignored him a little —he wasn't speaking to me right then— and I finally caught it with sticky fingers so that it couldn't run away from me.

"Hey, Scott?" I asked, nodding my thanks as a lightly-buttered slice of toast landed under my nose. "What were you talking about yesterday, with the thing about IR testifying?"

My brother sat down beside me with a piece of his own toast —liberally smeared with peanut butter— and took a bite, almost without thinking about it. He chewed a little but then spoke without swallowing —the gummy crumb-and-glop combination making his words come out as thickly as concrete. "The Brits want us to testify because there's really no case against him aside from the whole breaking and entering thing. They want IR a part of it because not only does it give the news hounds something good to write about, but also gives them a greater chance of nailing the bastard to the wall."

I nodded there, as I could see the validity of their arguments, but I had also spotted a whole host of reasons why we shouldn't have to go up against a mad-man in court, foremost of them being the whole issue of International Rescue being a secret, _anonymous_ operation. The simple fact that the whole thing would be permanently on record, not to mention the fact that we would be under oath to tell the truth on everything we said and did; that would be made remarkably difficult as names and locations, as well as the entire, fully-explained event were required within that particular law.

With the launching of International Rescue eighteen months ago, we had become kind of above the law in the way that I routinely bounced illegal signals off of the satellites surrounding 'Five, and often hacked into global servers to access information that was to help us on rescues. It made for a thorny situation indeed.

Scott had watched me mull that over for a bit, as he munched on his second breakfast and almost drowned himself in coffee. I had to admit I was jealous.

"So…" I said slowly. "What's the plan? I'm assuming that Dad has a plan of action?"

My brother smirked. "Naturally."

I had to admit to myself that that particular remark left a lot of possibilities.


	12. In the Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

My older brother was the kind of guy who is well known for his inability to lie. He can keep important secrets until the ends of the earth —there was no amount of intensely threatening threats or promises of good-natured fratricide that could pry information out of him, even if said brothers were as determined to extract as he was to keep them. Whenever there was a circumstance where he would be required to hold up under brotherly or fatherly scrutiny however, it was very rare that Scott actually managed to fool anyone into believing him on any account. He was just so easy to read on those occasions when he was required to tell even the tiniest, most innocent falsehood.

It was therefore no surprise when Scott replied to my query as to what Dad's 'plan' with the involvement of our organisation in The Hood's trial entailed, I couldn't exactly give his statement any degree of believability. My suspicions were further compounded when he said to me that Dad had told him that he wasn't to tell anyone until our father gave the cue.

If his stranger-than-normal extended run-on sentence wasn't enough to clue me in, the sheepishly expectant look on his face told all.

"Scott!" or… Dork, as I preferred to call him.

He grinned at me a little. "Never say a guy can't try to fool his brother once in a while!"

I scoffed. Nice try Scooter.

"Yeah, the kids maybe; it's never worked on me and you know it!"

Scott smirked at me, taking another large bite of his rapidly oozing toast; he'd put way too much peanut butter on it, and watching him chew on it wasn't doing much for me right then. "I can dream, can't I?" The rest of the slice then disappeared beneath his teeth, and I realised that I didn't really fancy my toast quite as much anymore.

Any intentions I had about following my previous line of thought were derailed as Virgil emerged into the kitchen, wearing a thick wool top over his jeans, and the yellow in his hair pretty much gone but for the lightest tint of lemon. Obviously Gordon had taken it easier on the guy this time around. He was reading while walking, his eyes glued to the screen of the data-pad in his right hand, and a cup and plate —totally empty of any kind of food or drink— balanced artfully in his left.

I looked at him properly, frowning slightly as he headed to the sink and placed the empty crockery on the bench beside it, still reading whatever figures that were on the screen. There was a slight crease between his brows that indicated some sort of problem that was holding the majority of his attention. I figured that it was the progress chart for something to do with the repairs to 'Two that he and Brains had been consumed with over the last three weeks.

"Two questions Virge. One: is that stuff from Gordon's breakfast, and two: why are you wearing a sweater?"

He glanced at Scott, my face, and then down to my almost untouched piece of toast and shrugged. "Gordon hadn't had breakfast yet, and I was cold." He didn't offer anything else to indicate that he wished to prolong the conversation, nor did he make a comment about me not eating. I was too startled by his apparent bad mood to be quick enough to find another thing to speak to him about that would allow for any further attempts at inter-brotherly communication.

I was a little confused, if I wanted to be entirely truthful. As much as Virgil was a grouch in the morning, he was usually well and truly over it not long after his caffeine and sugar had kicked in. There was also the fact that he was hardly ever cold. Yes, our thermostat was designed to automatically adjust up to a set temperature, and by design each human's body temp registered in different ways, but I hardly ever saw my immediate younger brother in anything more than a tartan jacket and under-shirt. The very fact that he was wearing woolens —even in the cooler weather we were attracting as the southern hemisphere moved into winter— indicated that something was up.

I was so preoccupied with his behaviour as he retreated from the room; carrying something metaphorical and marginally more heavy than anything else I had ever seen on him before, that I somehow had managed to forget that Scott was still perched next to me at the bench.

I jumped about three feet in the air as he muttered something to himself, and I lost my precariously maintained balance on the edge of the bar stool. I yelped as I slid backwards, thumping my arm against the counter-top; my bad shoulder letting out a jagged pulse of unexpected pain as Scott grabbed it to stop my rapid descent to the floor.

"Thanks." I gasped, as my heart deemed my continued existence important enough to recommence beating, and I hissed a little as I prodded the dark bruise already forming where my elbow had whacked the marble edge of the counter. "That's gonna hurt tomorrow!" I frowned, trying my best to rub away the sting that was lingering. I only succeeded in making the ache go deeper. "Damn…" I breathed sharply.

Scott's hand shot up to palm me on the back of the head. "Language." He told me smartly, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth, and I knew that it was only because our father was somewhere in the vicinity that he was being so pedantic. I knew that if it were otherwise, he couldn't have cared less about what profanities came out of my mouth.

Dad walked in then, and upon seeing Scott and I at the counter, along with my barely-nibbled piece of toast, pointed at me. "Is that all you've eaten today?"

I nodded, and I rubbed my neck. "I'm just not all that hungry, and I don't want to puke either."

Dad nodded sympathetically. I had been like that last time as well. "Doctor Kingston will be here tomorrow; I've just spoken to him. He'll probably have a meal plan set out for you. I really don't want to see you lose any more weight if we can possibly help it, John."

My father's eyes were tired and worried, ringed with purple shadows, and I realised that I was most of the cause for his sleepless nights. He smiled at me though, and clapped me on the shoulder as he continued on his way to the stairs that led to the infirmary, presumably to see how Gordon was going being tied down for the time being.

I was totally distracted from anything else I may have been thinking, as I heard the tell-tale pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof. Immediately perking up —wasn't today great?— I immediately rose to my feet and shuffled over to the double doors that led to the balcony that overlooked the pool deck, and the gardens surrounding it.

The sky had suddenly become a roiling, purple-grey mass of cloud and lightning. The trees were wildly moving around as though they wanted to uproot themselves and do a kind of dance to the beat that the wind and lashing rain were setting off. I wasn't an artist like Virgil, but I knew that my younger brother would be itching to paint this scene when he saw it, as long as he hadn't decided to head back to bed. Being up on 'Five for the majority of the year really made me miss all the simple things like the smell of a thunderstorm. The ozone in the air and the crackly sound of the lightning as the winds howled across the sky was something that had always made me feel that much closer to my mother.

While all the other guys had all been typically afraid of storms as children, I was the one person who would go out with Mom and sit on the veranda of the farmhouse and watch as the dusty ground soaked up all the rainwater, and the deluge rushed its way over the guttering and out of the waterspouts, warm in her embrace on the porch swing. One of my clearest memories of her was when I was around ten years of age, and it was the middle of summer. The clouds had come out of literally nowhere, and not thirty seconds after I had looked out of the tree-house in amazement at them, my brothers had all gone sprinting inside; even twelve-year-old Scott, who had maintained that he was over the fear of storms, had gone and hidden in his bedroom. I had merely cheered and slipped my way to the ground.

We had played in the rain for nearly twenty minutes in the hot summer's air; rapidly cooling beneath the rain as it sheeted down over us. I was hit by the immediately strong need to do it right now, and I stubbornly squared my shoulders.

It seemed that Virgil wasn't the only brother who had learned to read minds, for as soon as the idea had crossed my mind, I felt a hand on my shoulder, trying to stay my actions before they were played out.

"Don't you even think about it." He warned me, fingers tightening as I tensed.

I clenched my jaw, anger suddenly rising poisonously within me. I took a deep breath to try to cool my temper, but I felt my brother's pressure increase, and I shoved him away, stalking to the doors and opening them wide, letting the rain pour in.

"Give me thirty seconds, Scott." I said quietly, as I turned to face him, anger evaporated as quickly as it had come. "I just want thirty seconds, please?"

His jaw tensed, and he nodded. He remembered how much I loved storms, and what exactly they meant to me. My brother was great like that.

I felt his eyes on my back as I slipped out into the pouring rain, and I lifted my good arm up to catch the droplets as they ran down my arm and between my fingers. I was drenched to the skin almost immediately, and I knew that both Dad and Virgil would have my hide and Scott's once they realised that I had come out here, but it was truly something that I needed to do.

 _Hey, Mom._ I smiled widely, looking up at the sky; ignoring the chill of the weather as it began to seep through the thin jacket I wore. _How are you? It's been a while hasn't it?_

Warmth spread through me as I imagined her touch on the top of my head, visualising the smile that she had always worn when she spoke my name, and I closed my eyes to the world and my worries for just the shortest moment in time.


	13. Chilled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

If I'd been able to get a look at my own expression, as I got caught trying my damnedest to get into the house via the 'empty' lounge without detection, I have no doubt that it would have been amusing. As it was, I was more than a little pissed at the whole state of affairs, seeing as I was the one smack-bang in the middle of it.

True, I had stayed out there in the rain and storm, and thunder-and-lighting- _whoosh-whoosh_ -wind a helluva lot longer than the pre-arranged thirty seconds, but so what? What does a guy have to do to get some time to himself nowadays? I didn't think that losing track of the time the small fifteen-minute period that I had warranted being smothered by well-meaning family members.

I couldn't help but realise that as I grew sicker, as was damn-well inevitable as I got further along in my treatments, the whole hovering-over-Johnny thing was going to get a lot worse before it got better. It didn't stop me hating it with every square inch of my heart and soul though; not one little bit. Even when I was relatively healthy in that time that I had enjoyed and cherished separating my fourteen-year-old and present-time selves —dialysis and red-and-white-blood-cell-drop scares notwithstanding— I had been watched by eagle-eyed family members. I was kidding myself if I was anyway convinced that it would ease off at all, especially now.

I was sodden, bedraggled and dripping as I slip-shuffled my soggy way into the brightly-lit house; the white lights that were keeping the shadows from the black-cloud sky at bay glowing their way determinedly into every corner. Let's just say that there was nowhere to hide, even if I could've managed to convince my body to move fast enough, even if a suitable place were to exist anywhere outside my wishful-thinking mind. My nose was running slightly from the chill of the wind that was whisking over, within and through the soggy-almost midday morning, and my socked-but-soaked-through slipper-clad feet were literally sticking to the floorboards as I walked. It basically made any kind of stealth impossible. The little lingering streaks of memory-induced warmth were coiling their comfy little nest in my chest, and I was pretty darn pleased with my little bit of rebellious self-indulgence. Put simply, I was happy. At least until the truth about Scott's apparent defection peeved me off.

He'd gone over to the enemy, even after he'd been so nice and fraternal and just plain _Big Brother Scott_ and hadn't literally sat on me to prevent me from venturing outside. I knew then that I'd have to enlist my almost-littlest-brother's help when I considered how much I was now wishing for revenge to be on taken on my eldest brother sometime very soon.

I hadn't even made it half-way to the dark, warm yellow-light safety of the hallway and the path to my bedroom before I was surrounded on all sides by very well-meaning brothers One and Two. I hated when Scott did the call-in-reinforcements-because-I-need-back-up thing. Urgh.

The two of them stood soldier-like and imposing in front of me; cross-armed and well-versed in the art of appearing out of nowhere when circumstances demanded it. It really rankled sorely to with me at that particular moment because of my apparent inability to sneak behind their backs. Damn it all to hell.

Scott had this inane smirk on his face that said that he knew exactly what he had done to me, mixed with that earnestly concerned look that I knew only too well. I found that I really didn't care about the second part all that much; as touching as it was all in all. Have I mentioned yet how infuriating my elder brother is?

The laser-ray-of-death glare that I was sending him would have incinerated him on the spot if the whole line about 'if looks could kill' was true. As it was, his smug look of annoyingness was well and truly accented by Virgil's wordless questioning and his _you'd-better-tell-me-what-you-were-doing-right-now?_ glare. I stood my ground though, despite the current ratio of our stand-off being two against one. Damn Scott and his manipulation-of-all-younger-brothers. The ass just liked to cause trouble, despite the fact that it was usually formed out of his over-the-top brotherly protection function. Where was an off switch when I needed one, huh?

Virgil stood there; half-understanding, half-worried, and with an exuding sense of utter non-amusement underlying it, and I figured that I should probably backtrack in my attitude pretty quick. I knew that otherwise something unpleasant and coddling-related was bound to happen pretty soon, maybe even despite that. His brows rose, and he held up a towel in an unspoken order to get rid of my state of pretty darn saturated state right now —and he managed to do it without letting a single word past his lips. Great. The art of wordless communication, done by a master. It was so much better when it wasn't being directed at me.

By this point after merely two point-five seconds passing, as my eyes focused properly on my younger brother, l noticed that my teeth were beginning to chatter. The sheriffs still weren't saying anything, and I noticed rather detachedly that I was being longer prevented from getting warm and dry the longer they stood there, drawing out the three seconds they had been right in my way.

I discovered that I had dripped a pretty slippery-wet trail behind me, and past the clattering of the hail-bullets that were rattling the windows —boy, was I glad that I'd come in when I had— I realised I'd have more bruises to match that one on my elbow than I'd know what to do with.

Finally, after the fourth second following my ambush, _traitor;_ I thought, Scott decided to open his trap, and I wondered once again, why he had outed me to the authorities.

Therefore, I was quite confused when I heard Virgil's voice rather than Scott's, and I stared at him in surprise, not expecting the hoarseness of his voice. Scott wasn't perturbed though. Big Brother knows all, and not just in the look-see-hear everything context either. I had already come to an instant conclusion; Virgil's allergies were already playing havoc with him, and it was barely even close to fall here. He'd always had awful hay-fever in those months and it was just made infinitely worse by the fact that we were always flying through different seasons, chasing time-zones as we travelled to each rescue site. I guessed that he'd be breaking out the Claratyne pretty soon.

He seemed rather resigned as I grabbed the towel he was holding out in offering, and I began to squeeze all the soaked-up rainwater that my jacket had absorbed just like a sponge. "Why'd you go out there, Johnny?" I didn't think he was expecting an answer, so I just shrugged my good shoulder, and continued to wipe up the excess moisture, absently realising that I was doing to him exactly what he had done to me before.

Scott eyed me a little, sizing up with his brother-radar whether I was likely to get sick or whatever was floating around in that brain of his. I just hitched a shoulder and made as though I would push past them —I really wanted a hot shower now—, and then they both scuttled aside, realising exactly what was on my mind.

"Come to the infirmary when you're done. I need to reattach your bags, and I want to check you out as well!" Virgil called, as I escaped as swiftly as I could to the hallway; hoping against hope that the twenty-foot distance that I had to transverse before I got to my room I wouldn't have the bad luck to end up coming across my father. I snorted a little as my brother's last comment echoed in my head, hoarse and stuffed-up with whatever pollen had inflamed his sinuses this time. I wouldn't be coming down with anything merely five minutes after being out in the rain. _Dork._

I was snuggled in a thick hoodie and track pants five minutes later —knit hat reclaimed against the chill in the air after the steamy warmth in the bathroom— padding my way back down the hall to the infirmary. There was a funny crawly feeling in my stomach that undoubtedly heralded future vomiting of some description, and I wrinkled my nose at that thought. Yick.

I found the place devoid of all Gordon-people, and I was glad. It meant that a) it was only Virgil to see me getting examined, and b) it also indicated that my second-youngest brother was doing pretty good in the breathing stakes.

I wriggled backwards onto my previously vacated bed, and I smiled sympathetically at Virgil as he wiped his now-streaming eyes on a tissue, before he washed his hands and put on a pair of latex gloves, ready to hook me back up to my meds. They were not only to protect me from any germs my brother might have had on his skin, but also to prevent Virgil from coming into contact with any possible residue that may be emanated from my pores from the chemotherapy meds; as slim as the chance was.

He checked my breathing, ears, and glands; though they were swollen from the cancer cells and lymphoma infection anyway, and checked my temperature. It was clearly a little above normal, as was expected for a person whose immune system was all of jack-low at the moment, but he said that he'd like to keep an eye on it, just in case.

"You're looking pretty good, considering, Johnny." He smiled at me wanly, as he disposed of the gloves and sniffed a little, rubbing his nose.

I twisted my mouth at him in sympathy. It seemed as if the itchy-eyes and stuffed-up nose thing was going to hit him hard.

"Have you taken any Demazin?" I asked curiously, as he blew his nose, and disposed of the tissue in the incinerator near the wastebasket. "You look miserable."

He made a face. "No. I took Claratyne though. I've been fuzzy-headed since yesterday; I figured that once I aired out my room and I'd dusted, it'd ease a little. It just seems to be getting worse. The pressure's giving me a headache."

I frowned. That wasn't right. Sirens began blaring in my mind —the reasons for why they were there weren't entirely clear yet—, and I tipped my brother's chin and his red-rimmed gaze down to meet mine. I didn't have my glasses on; the chemo and fatigue had been making my vision blurry and I had been wearing them to ease it, but I suddenly registered how pale he was looking, and how the redness around his nose and on his cheeks was brighter than it should be.

He made me blink a little in disgust as he did that thing; sniffing mightily and drawing his leakiness up into his sinuses. I nearly gagged at the thought of it. _No need for chemo drugs there_.

He choked a little as it caught in his throat, and I was about to say something smart-alecky about how stupid actions cause stupid reactions; but I jumped as there was suddenly a loud, terribly hacking cough from deep within my brother's chest. I winced at how painfully wet and gross it sounded, but then the ramifications of exactly what it meant in our circumstances registered with the both of us with a bolt of gut-wrenching, electric-jolt clarity.

Virgil clapped his hand to his mouth; way too late to cover the horrible sound, and we stared at each other in complete dismay.

_Oh shit._


	14. Shades of Grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

I hate surprises, especially ones like this. As soon as I realized what a deep amount of crap we had slip-slid into this time, I got that terrible gut feeling, the one that tells you exactly how much you know that things are going to go south remarkably quickly from there on in.

The two of us stared at each other for a moment longer, and then Virgil hurriedly moved away, his palm still clamped firmly over his mouth as though he could somehow prevent any germs from emerging. It was a futile endeavour, and we both knew it. It takes more than a few days for a person to come down with something, and there was the fact that I had been in extremely close contact with just about everyone on the island. It didn't matter if one person had it, it was inevitable that even if not everyone caught whatever virus it was, the carrier could still spread it to a lot of people in the place, despite any precautions that may be taken. I knew my brother well enough that he wouldn't have chanced getting me sick if he had any suspicion that his allergies were a lot more than allergies, as was the case this time.

 _Dammit!_ I snarled to myself, as my little brother crossed to the sink to wash his hands again. This was going to cause a _lot_ of problems, not only on the physical and health-wise side of it either. I kind of didn't blame Virgil for being so obsessive about the cleanliness of the place; my whole state of health was probably what had set him off in his over-clean-is-good philosophy back when we were kids, and I couldn't really fault him for that at all.

I just wasn't the holder of enough comprehensible thought lately, seeing as I was still completely sleep-deprived and exhausted. I watched as my brother keyed in the code to link the wall-raised communicator to the office, where I assumed my father now was, since Gordon had been sprung from down here. Too bad it looked like he would be returning pretty soon.

I rubbed the back of my neck gingerly as I considered the issue at hand. The skin was dry and itchy, and I wondered, absently whether we had any sorbelene cream down here, and whether it would help it at all in rehydrating my skin. I twisted my neck to drag it along my collar as I tried to alleviate the scratchy sensation.

My brother was pale and shaky as he turned to face me again, and there was a light shining of sweat on his brow that seemed to be more indicative to shock and emotional stress than a fever of any kind. As much as I was intensely worried about both him and myself, that was a hopeful sign that we may just have caught his illness early. I started as I realised that Virgil's hazel eyes were swimming with tears, and I slipped off of the bed and moved instinctively towards him. His jaw tensed, and he backed away from me, snatching a tissue on the way past to blow his still-runny nose.

Virgil shook his head as I started to move, and I hated the look of self-loathing that was clear on his face. I knew he was blaming himself terribly for not seeing his own symptoms, but if he was starting to show them in the first place then there was really no hope of me not getting whatever it was in the end. He really wouldn't have realised that he was getting ill, not with the symptoms being so similar to what he got from the allergic rhinitis spring and fall of every year.

There was the loud sound of two different sets of footsteps from the hallway, and Dad and Brains entered at a quick trot. "What's going on?" Our father asked, looking between the two of us with that worried frown that seemed permanently etched into the skin of his forehead. "What's wrong?" He glanced at me, still leaning on the bed, and saw the distance that was between the two of us, and then at the look on my younger brother's face. The tricklings of worry rolling off of him strengthened instantly into a flood.

I cleared my throat, seeing how distraught my brother was, and the fact that he didn't seem to be able to form sentences right that second. He was obviously fighting his emotions, and I couldn't help but realise that this was the first show of any kind of proper emotion since we had been told I had relapsed. He clearly wasn't feeling well to begin with, but the fact that he could possibly be making me ill —as well as every other current stress that had been weighing on our family— was obviously screwing with his feelings and overall emotional balance.

"I think Virgil is sick, Dad." I spoke quietly, watching my father's reaction. He turned, immediately and worriedly towards my brother, and his eyes narrowed —as had mine— as he looked closely at him, and saw that there were things with Virgil's appearance that weren't quite right.

Brains, unnoticed up until then, moved with my father towards Virgil, who hadn't yet spoken another word. My brother's shoulders were at this point, shaking and he had turned his back to hide his anguish. My own heart beat faster at the sight at my sibling's distress; as it always had, and I hated the fact that I was pretty much disallowed to go and comfort him, reassure him, make sure that he was alright, all because I could die if I became sick enough. No. It was much better if I left. It was much better if I didn't take that chance.

Slipping out of the infirmary, I padded back down the hall and up the stairs to the main living area, wondering where Scott could possibly be. If there ever was someone who I trusted more than myself to help work Virgil and his tumultuous emotions out, it was my eldest brother. He may have had marginally different methods of solving problems than me, but if the ultimate result was the same, I would take any alternate measures that I could, and that included subjecting Virgil to Scott's overwhelming smother-hen tendencies.

I was already tiring from all of my walking this morning. I hadn't done anything much over the past few weeks besides sit around, and sleep, read or type, and my energy levels were nowhere near up to normal. I was about five minutes closer to falling in a disheveled heap on the couch, despite the feelings of my heart and mind on the matter, when I finally spotted Scott coming from the direction of our father's office.

His face was creased with the frown that everyone seemed to be wearing at the moment, and he was looking for the entire world as though he had lost his favourite toy. It must have been a really important favourite toy…

"What's up Scott?" Despite the circumstances, and the fact that everything was so worrying at the moment, I couldn't help but grin at another almost identical phrase that popped into my brain when I said it. Bugs Bunny! Ha!

Scott jumped a little, and he rubbed his forehead tiredly, looking at me from behind bloodshot and dark-ringed eyes. The guy really needed some sleep soon. Maybe I could offer him some of my sleep meds. Not that they were really helping me, really, but it never hurt to share. "Hey John." Scott sighed. "Have you seen Dad? I need to ask him something." There was also something muttered about headaches and hay-fever that I really didn't catch. The sleep thing would have done me good as well.

"He's down in the infirmary with Virgil." Then I remembered why I was looking for my eldest brother in the first place. "We think he's come down with something. At least the doctor is coming tomorrow; Brains will have another pair of hands if Virge is out of the running for the doctor squad." I sniggered. "Ha! Get it? Doctor Squad?"

I then blinked a little in surprise at that statement. Where had that come from?

Scott shot me a funny look; full of mingled worry, confusion, and just deep-seated weariness. I figured that I should shut my mouth right the hell now, and try and find a place to catch some semblance of sleep, for I didn't seem to be observing crucial conversational conventions. Like when would be a good time to shut the rambling. I found blaming the pain meds and the cocktail of bio-balancing drugs I was on was easier than trying to reason with my own brain.

Scott seemed to have come to the same conclusion. "Go to bed, Johnny." He told me, raking a hand through his hair, already half-way to heading down the stairs I had emerged from nearly fifteen minutes before. "Get some sleep, and we'll try and reason with your warped sense of humour later."

I stood there for a second, with proverbial whiplash as I struggled to absorb that _wow-where-did-that-come-from_? statement with a modicum of dignity, but before I could either come up with a fitting retort, or else ask Scott _why_ , my brother had already vanished through the doorway.

Grumbling to myself about irritating older brothers with overly smart mouths, I nevertheless obeyed his orders and settled myself into my pre-existing nest of pillows and blankets on the living room couch. It took a moment for me to find a position that was relatively comfortable, owing to the presence of the reattached chemo and drug bags, but I drifted off into sleep much faster than I would have otherwise believed if I hadn't been experiencing it for myself.

It was much later in the day when I stirred. Purple-orange light streamed from behind the curtains that had been drawn across the windows, and the mere colour and brightness of it indicated that the storm from this morning had long since passed. It was obviously very close to sundown. A split second, and I closed my eyes again, not wanting to face the aches that I knew would be present if I allowed myself to awaken any further.

I laid there for a bit in my half-aware state of fuzziness, listening to the sounds of the clinking of cutlery, glasses and plates from the people in the kitchen, not really having inclination to move anytime soon; the real world seemed much too chilly at the moment. I noticed exactly how cold I was all of a sudden, despite the heaviness of the blankets I had amassed, when my body shivered heavily beneath them without any input from me.

I had my head buried in the pillow at this point, because everyone knows that you lose the most body heat from your ears, and despite the presence of the wool hat atop my head, I was still shuddering. I moved my head slightly to the side as I heard the sounds of a pot being lifted off of the huge stove in the kitchen, and I listened to the quiet tread of footsteps on the carpeting, coming closer to me, dulled by whatever sleep-state my body was still residing in. Whoever-it-was was probably wanted me to get up and come to the dinner table.

Needless to say, I wasn't planning on moving. I seemed to have achieved a relatively stable position in terms of achy limbs and rebelling guts, and I felt that I'd rather prefer to keep it that way, despite the atrocious headache that I could feel hovering menacingly at my temples.

Now that my awakened mind had been kicked into gear with all the possible ways I could get out of rising, it was brought to my attention that I was feeling rather stuffy-headed, worse than I had this morning when I'd woken up in the infirmary.

Groaning, I shied away from the too-cold hand that rested on my forehead then; chilly with the feeling of just-washed skin that I had more than gotten used to over the past few weeks. It seriously felt like icicles were attached to their hand instead of fingers. Growling beneath my breath, I jerked my heavy eyelids open again and glared unfocusedly at the person who had dared stick their fingers in the freezer. It was then I realised that it was only my dad.

"Huh?" I garbled a little as I noticed that my father was apparently waiting for an answer to a question that he had asked. "Sorry?" There was something stuck in my throat; sticky and dry, and I noticed that I hadn't had a drink in more than a few hours.

"Supper is ready, son. I was asking if you were up to it." His voice was taut with the usual worry he perpetually possessed as he retracted his hand, taking the icy-coldness-turned-pleasant coolness away. I whimpered a little at the loss of contact, but assumed that this meant that John needed to move his butt now. I didn't want to though. I was comfy, though admittedly chilled. I felt my eyes close, really ready to go back to sleep.

"John." My father had a frown in his voice, but I didn't answer. I was already dropping back to sleep to escape the headache that was growing stronger by the second. Sorry Dad, but I really didn't want another monster splitting my head, thanks all the same.


	15. Brother, Oh Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

I woke up panting and gasping, still in my cocoon on the couch, hot and sweaty and overall terrified, though I had no idea why. To me, it didn't seem too long ago that I had fallen asleep, but owing to the obvious non-light from behind the curtains, I knew that it was well into the evening.

Blinking blearily in the almost-pitch darkness of the lounge, I rubbed my eyes to rid them of the gummy leftovers of sleep, and tried to calm my racing heart; breathing deeply to put a damper on my panic. What I could gather, from my shaky body —not from anything chill-related this time— and the terror thrumming in my heart, was that I had had a nightmare of some description. Though the thing was, I couldn't recall anything from the last few sleep-filled hours, other than it was terrifying enough to wake me up in such an abrupt manner.

I screwed my face into a disgusted expression as I found just how damp my clothing was, not to mention the nausea that was swirling within my gut, seemingly very close to emerging. Just because I was undergoing treatment for my illness didn't mean that the symptoms of the lymphoma had by any means ceased. I really wanted and needed to wash and change my clothes, but first; to more pressing matters.

Groping for light-switch on the lamp on the table, I peered around in the gloom in an attempt to locate one of the many chuck-bowls I owned, but unfortunately —I couldn't see any sign of one. The reason for why I needed it was becoming rather urgent.

Closing my eyes and swallowing reflexively to try and keep down the sour liquid, I untangled myself hurriedly from the covers, and pulled myself laboriously to my feet. I gasped a little as my head spun around me, sending the walls —bathed in the warmth of the yellow lamp-light— twisting into directions that really made it difficult to succeed in my self-assigned mission.

I held still for a second, until it appeared that my surroundings were holding a little steady, and continued somehow to repress the ever-growing urge to vomit.

I found it remarkably unusual that I hadn't had someone hovering over me when I woke, seeing as I had conked out on my father so abruptly. The memories were a little fuzzy right now; which was fair enough, having seen how little I had actually woken up for him in the first place. The quiet/alone thing was a little disconcerting; I hadn't heard anything from the kitchen or any other room in the immediate vicinity. The house seemed deserted on this level, but I knew that my father could have very well been in his office, not to mention that my brothers should still be around unless they were in bed. However, it was really peculiar to think that, if it were indeed late enough for them to be asleep, that someone hadn't roused me to go back to my own room.

That realisation led me to believe that it was relatively early in the evening still, and that as a result indicated that something else was up. I intended to find out what that something was. After I had dealt with more pressing matters, of course.

Now that I had regained some kind of equilibrial stability, I tried to stumble my tired way towards the nearest bathroom, but my ongoing fight with my gut failed miserably as I wasn't able to eke enough speed out of my feet and legs. As I shuffled too-hurriedly-fast across the immensely wide distance, one of my feet snagged on something, and I suddenly found myself on my hands and knees. The jerking movement sloshed all the nausea the wrong way, and signaled to my stomach that now was a great time to eject its contents straight onto the floor beneath my nose.

I gagged heavily as I was forced to see the runny, chunky bits of mostly-digested toast that I had eaten earlier, and my choking was subsequently renewed, just adding to the mess that was already staining the carpet.

My free arm began to tremble with the effort of keeping me upright, and I hated how weak I knew I was getting. I was growing gradually sicker and more exhausted each day, and I was terribly, irrevocably afraid of what possibly could be coming for me in the future.

I clenched my jaw in misery, and let out a whimper as muscles cramped, sending rivulets of pained tears streaming from the corners of my eyes. The headache that I had been trying to stave off before my nap burst behind my eyes in lightning-bright tendrils, and I had to roll painfully to the side to avoid landing in my own sick. I raised my good hand to my head and shuddered, lost in the complete and utter hatred of my current predicament.

 _Where in the hell is everyone?_ I found myself thinking, a mix of anger and utter loneliness fizzling through me like electricity. It may well have been a little self-absorbed, but the thing was, I had become more than used to someone being within earshot, and the idea that no-one was around when I actually wanted and needed a hand was terrifying. As a remarkably self-sufficient person, I obviously abhorred being coddled, but ironically, I was way too ill right this second to be able to get anywhere on my own, even if I dearly wanted to.

I lay there on my side, left arm wrapped around my torso as I tried not to breathe in the stench of my own puke. I did my best to ignore the determined spasms of my stomach muscles; fiery and clenching, and I closed my eyes, wishing to go back to sleep _right now_ and escape this hell.

The unexpected cry —loud and youthful, and most clearly a younger brother— tore through my aching head with all the force of an explosion, and I whimpered as I swallowed heavily against the vile taste in the back of my throat. I opened my eyes painfully at the brightness of the switched-on overhead lights, to see Alan kneeling next to me.

"I'm so sorry John!" My brother said frantically, leaning over me and getting right into my field of vision as he spoke. His form was fuzzy —I _really_ needed to retrieve my glasses— but I was seriously trying my hardest to get him in focus. "I was supposed to be sitting with you, but I had to go to the—"

"It's okay, Al" I assured him raspily, before coughing as more bile appeared. I breathed heavily through my nose as I tried to lean away from the nauseating mess in front of me. "Can you help me…" I swallowed, hard against the burning in my throat. "… turn over please?"

He nodded as —clearly a little afraid of hurting me— he helped me move away from my last position. Alan, to his everlasting credit, hardly flinched at the sight of me so utterly helpless and sick, and I loved him for it. I discovered that I really hadn't gotten as far as I had thought in my mission, as my little brother assisted me in leaning back against the couch where I had just been sleeping. It was less than smooth; he was still a kid, and considering me, my head and all my lanky limbs, it was difficult for me to be lugged about with much ease for a single fourteen-year-old. "Hold on, John." Alan told me quietly, once I was settled. "I'll go find Dad or Scott, you'll be alright."

He turned and sprinted away, and I closed my eyes against my own surroundings; left with only a churning stomach and thumping head for company. I drew in sharp breaths to try and quash the need to heave, but it was extremely difficult to think, let alone order disobedient body parts into doing what I wanted.

The kid was taking everything rather well considering, and I was proud of the way he had just handled the situation; it was then I knew that he was going to make a damn good IR operative, once he began his official training. I had always maintained it, but it was always nice to have proof given to your educated guesses —once in every little while.

There were footsteps returning, though truthfully I was focusing on not hurling again, and then I felt a hand on my forehead, but this time I knew that it was Scott's rather than my father's.

"John?" He asked solicitously. "Are you okay?" Scott tensed next to me as he felt the heat radiating off of my skin, but I didn't feel particularly worse than I should, so I didn't pay it any heed. The stupid question he had just asked was another thing entirely.

I bit back an angry retort without even bothering to try and open my eyes. Voicing my thoughts was currently ill-advised for two reasons: a) I was still fighting nausea (trying but apparently failing: _just urgh_ ), and b) Scott actually hadn't done anything majorly offensive to me… yet. There was no reason for me to be vicious. I shook my head slightly as an answer in deference to opening my mouth.

Scott retracted his hand, but I really didn't want him to go, and not only for the cool-pack capabilities his hand presented. I suddenly felt fear —stronger and so much more defined than usual, along with a sense of foreboding that I really wanted to go away right-the-hell-now. I really didn't want to break down in front of my brothers again; never mind that I was sick, injured, and my emotional state was more or less in shredded tatters. It was a sense of imminent events occurring that felt as though they were going to have particular significance in one way or another.

It wasn't a feeling that I particularly liked.

I was a little dizzy by this time, and the fact that Scott had decided that I would be much better off somewhere other than the floor didn't seem to matter. He hauled me up with his arm around my back, sending a multitude of stars spinning off into the atmosphere. I was also shivering again in the chilliness of the winterised air that underlined the relative warmth. I knew that Scott had somehow realised that, because though my eyes were shut tight against the spinning scenery, I heard him ask Alan to run to my room and grab a clean set of pajamas, along with what sounded like an order for a fresh lot of blankets from the linen closet.

I inched my eyes open to give myself a measure of balance as I felt my brother guide me towards the hallway and the bathroom. The dizziness was increasing in increments, and I found myself attempting to ignore it by asking Scott where everyone else was.

He was silent for a second, and I wondered why, but I was distracted from that by the answer to my question. "Dad is in the office, and Virgil and Gordon are in the games room upstairs. I was in my room, because Alan somehow convinced me that he was able to watch you. I was inclined to agree, at least until you went and did this."

I snorted a little at that, because it wasn't as if I could actually help it; but it was touching that Alan felt that way. I thought back on my older brother's sentence, and realised that I hadn't asked properly about Virgil. The last several hours were obviously not within reach, seeing as I had been for all intents and purposes dead to the world, but I knew that it was ample time for Brains to have examined my brother and allowed him to come to an accurate diagnosis. That Virgil was still up, even this late at night was encouraging, but at the same time my brother could sleep anywhere, and just because he was in there with Gordon, didn't mean that he was necessarily awake. Much like me, my second brother had the amazing ability to fall asleep anywhere. That he was under the weather wouldn't assist in helping him to stay awake anyway.

I had prised my eyelids open to look blurrily into my brother's face, and I watched his mouth twist into a small, bitter smile at my question, but when he answered, it was with all the support and brotherly care that he could possibly have mustered.

"He's got allergic bronchitis again. We've caught it early-ish this time, but he's joining Gordy on the nebuliser for a while to make sure that he's not going to get worse."

I heaved a sigh of relief at that. Despite the fact that Gordon and I were the only ones as kids to have 'proper' asthma, Virgil, with his allergies often suffered from the mixed-allergic form, also called asthmatic bronchitis, which was the inflammation of his lungs from the allergens in the air that he was so sensitive to. It was bad luck for him that he had developed it in the first place; he was going to be sick for a few days, but I knew that my brother was going to be much happier that there was no chance that he was going to make me sick. I thanked God, the stars and anyone else that was listening that the allergy-caused illness wasn't in any way contagious. It was a worry off of all of our shoulders.

By then, the two of us had reached the nearest bathroom to the lounge, and although I had one: managed to make it here without puking, and two: I had basically nothing left to bring up, I still found myself hugging the toilet bowl in an effort to stop myself making another mess.

Alan, having presumably heard my retching from down the hall, then stepped in with a pile of clothing in his hands. I caught his eye as he sat them on the edge of the bathtub, before Scott then requested that he hunt down Virgil for more Zofran and for another dose of headache meds as well to help me sleep.

Neither Virgil nor Scott seemed worried at all that I needed help to change my damp clothes. My cheeks flamed nevertheless as I was forced to lean on them for support, but I knew that at this point, I really didn't have any choice in the matter.

Virgil's cheeks were flushed with the fever that showed that his lungs were fighting the infection caused by the allergens, but I could see that he was much more at ease than he was last time I had seen him. I also knew that Scott must have spoken to him somewhere along the line, because honestly, it had clearly done him a lot of good.


	16. Blindsided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

The next morning found me once again leaning over the loo in my en-suite bathroom, heaving with side-tearing force, but actually not bringing up anything of substance. Although it had been relatively late at night for normal people to be having dinner, once the anti-nausea drugs my younger brother had given me had taken effect I had actually felt well enough to try eating something other than toast. It was just luck that last night's meal had been spaghetti bolognaise, because it had been one of the few things that I had been able to actually keep down last time for enough of a length to allow for any of the food to actually be absorbed. I couldn't have it all the time, or stomach the onion or garlic that was usually mixed in with the sauce, but since everyone added the ingredients to their own liking anyway, there was no worry of my stomach expelling the much-needed fuel when the opportunity of eating it arose.

As much as I was convulsing enough right now to give myself an instant headache, and wasn't actually expelling anything; just the strength of the feeling of nausea swirling beneath my breastbone was enough to keep me on my knees. I sincerely hoped that when Dr Kingston arrived he would have a solution that may possibly help me with keeping down anything I put in my mouth, or at least having something to give me that would allow my body to begin retaining essential nutrients. I didn't even care if it came in the form of a needle. Didn't that tell the world something?

Someone must have heard my retching as they passed my bedroom, because the next time I raised my head to take a gasping breath, there was one hand rubbing my back soothingly, as well as another in my line of sight with a cup of water held steadily within it.

Following the arm clad in a dark-blue sleeve up to the shoulder, I met the dark blue eyes of my father. He was smiling at me; something in his eyes that I interpreted as being worry and intense love combined, and I could see there was a stress that was not entirely related to my current state of health. I remembered the promise I had made to myself back in Topeka on the way home from the cancer center, and I realised that I hadn't exactly stayed true to myself on that front. I had hardly spoken to him properly in weeks. I had been both too exhausted and fuzzy-thought-ey to be able to properly hold myself in the present as I wanted. I looked at him closely as he gave me his own visual examination, and came to the conclusion that he and Scott both needed to talk to someone. We all did. Each other would be a really great beginning.

"Hey, Dad." I accepted the water with a smile, swishing the first sip around and then spitting it into the toilet. Being on an island as we were, we didn't exactly have a traditional plumbing system. All of our water was drawn from the deep-spring veins that ran alongside the cavern silos that housed the 'birds. It meant that we had endlessly fresh water to accompany the huge rain tanks that Kyrano had set up when we had first moved here. Those particular sources were linked to the huge generator that was the island's power source; giving us instant hot water for showers and the other tasks that were undertaken —like washing filthy machines and humans after a rescue. I grinned inwardly as I recalled some of the messes that my dad and brothers had come home with after some call-outs. Like mudslides and oil-rig disasters. Those were definitely times that I had been the most glad to be up on 'Five. I had felt very privileged to be clean when they weren't, even considering my knowledge of Virgil's hatred of dirtiness.

Finishing the liquid in slow sips, I grimaced as the chilliness of the water added to my light headache. Rubbing my temple with my free hand, after passing the empty vessel back to my father, I figured that it was well past time for another dose of ibuprofen, or even something IV-based so when I did go and be properly sick —as was probably damn-well inevitable— I wouldn't end up diminishing the effectiveness of the drugs.

As it appeared that the run of lurching and roiling had ceased for the moment, my father offered me his hand, and I accepted the guide to my feet, glad that for once, my equilibrium didn't seem to be going screwy on me.

"Do you feel up to breakfast?" He asked me as he wrapped an arm about my shoulders, walking with me and adding wordless support as we moved into the hall. He didn't need to ask, really. Despite the regularity with which I had been sick each day, I had still been trying my utmost to keep a routine going in the hope that at least something was being digested before I went and threw it all up again. I nodded anyway, thankful for his consideration in not assuming I was going to eat regardless, and we headed into the kitchen.

I was ever so pleased to find that everyone living on the island was present for breakfast. Scott, Alan, Fermat, Brains, Gordon. Even Virgil had managed to haul himself out of bed. Onaha was at the counter, serving, as usual, and Kyrano was pouring coffee into the cups, but their daughter was seated in the chair next to Alan. Said brother was looking particularly smug with his position, though slightly out of his depth all the same. I hid a smile at Fermat's obvious knowledge of the situation, and how he was attempting to conceal his own amusement of his friend's obvious infatuation with the Malay girl.

My father gave me a pat on my back as I split off for my own seat and I was glad that he at least, despite his worry, had toned down on the whole smother-hen thing my brothers had going. I took my place in between Virgil and Scott, and immediately regretted it. There was amusement mixed in as my brothers —both elder and younger, and each equally as protective as the other— attempted to slap their hands on my forehead to gauge my temperature, right at the same time. Too bad they got me in the face in their private missions to be overbearing.

"Ow!" I cried, batting their hands away hurriedly. I rather thought Scott's fingers had caught me in the eye. "I'd kinda like to keep my eyesight if you two don't mind!"

I could hear the lot of them sniggering as I rubbed my eye furiously to stop it filling up with involuntary tears. It wasn't funny, really, but you try telling them that!

Once Virgil had ensured that Scott's over-long, half-bitten nails hadn't done me any damage, the breakfast table erupted into various conversations. I was partially annoyed that they had all been staring at me over something wholly non-threatening, but I was reasonable in considering the fact that I'd be doing exactly the same thing if the roles were reversed.

I figured that I'd give myself a try with eating a small bit of oatmeal and some fruit juice, and I was seriously crossing my fingers that I —rather than my stomach — would have the monopoly on deciding what my day was going to be like. I was rather hoping to be able give my doctor at least a little bit of good news when he arrived later in the afternoon.

##

I found myself an hour later, curled up beneath the blanket in the armchair in my father's office. I was feeling pretty normal considering, and the fact that my head was clearer than it had been for a while had me pretty much happy with the proceedings. Apparently noticing that particular detail at breakfast, my father had called a meeting of all operatives; even the unofficial ones, to presumably discuss the functionality of the Thunderbirds —both machine and human— and there was nothing that he could have done to stop me from attending, headache and nausea notwithstanding.

My brothers were situated in various positions around the office. Scott was perched on the edge of our father's desk; ready and prepared for everything. Virgil stood over near the wall to Scott's left, rubbing his obviously itchy nose with the palm of his hand. Gordon and Alan were sprawled out together on the floor; hands tucked beneath their heads, with Tin-Tin and Fermat perched on the couch behind them on either side of Brains. My father himself was seated in his usual position in the desk-chair, but rather than facing the portraits that linked to the comms. systems within each of the ships, he faced us all; a look on his face that gave me no clues as to what may have been going on in that brain of his.

My father was analytic, highly intelligent, strict, passionate and a true believer in hard work and humility. He was also a great strategist, a military man, and a brilliant father. But the thing my dad sucked at was tact. I said that Alan and Scott sucked at subtlety, but honestly; when a person thought about it, where did they learn it from? Obvious, isn't it?

He stared at us for a minute before speaking. His eyes roamed over all of us; brothers, friends, sons, daughters. We were all important to him, and we knew it. We had choices, hopes, dreams, worries and passions probably far from anything he could possibly understand, and we had all given up something in order to help Jefferson Tracy fulfill one of his wildest dreams. Perhaps that's why it was such a shock when he came right out —no hesitation and only a little bit of unsteadiness— and said "I'm closing down International Rescue."

Silence. Complete and utter silence fell across the entire room. It was quiet when the meeting came to order —as was expected when you saw that your commander was ready to address the troops— but now it was dead silent. It was a silence that was terribly loud and heavy with a sudden tension and ringing shock that no-one seemed to have the slightest inkling on how it should be handled. None of us even breathed all that much while we waited for that little bit of information to begin registering within our electro-shocked minds, and I watched my father in interest, even as I tried to work through the eye-blinking _well-that-was-unexpected-Dad_ shock.

I couldn't make an accurate guess as to what was going through the heads of my brothers; hell I could barely even register what was going on in mine. It seemed that Brains was the only one in the room besides Dad that seemed to be showing a lack of any type of surprise with the announcement of the whole _what-the-hell-is-this?_ scheme. The _what-the-effing-hell-is-this-guy-thinking?_ running through my head right at that second wasn't really helping me with staying where the heck I wanted with my head in the waking world.

My brothers, especially Virgil and Scott, were staring speechlessly at our father as though they couldn't quite believe what he had just come out with. Gordon and Alan sprung upwards into seated positions faster than you could say 'kalamazoo', and Tin-Tin and Fermat just shared a look that meant that they somehow had known that this was coming, but not quite in the manner that they had expected.

As I seemed to be the only one who was able to find a voice-box at the moment, I cleared my throat hesitantly, and pulled my blanket up higher over my chilled body. "Uh, Dad?" I spoke quietly, the hoarseness of my voice and my aching head not allowing for anything of a more substantial volume to come out of it. "Why?"

It was a single-syllable question; a simple query, and by all means should have had a simple answer to go with it.

Too bad it seemed that things were going to become a hell of a lot more complicated before we got what we wanted.


	17. Of Thoughts and Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

As strong a man as Jefferson Tracy was, there was no way in hell that the events of the past few weeks hadn't taken their toll on him both as an employer, and as a father. Although the majority of my brain was screaming _Dad, what are you doing? We gave up everything for you, and you're just planning on closing it all down_ without _our input?_ I found myself also considering possible reasons why he would be scrapping every part of the work from the last seven years into waste.

We had only been in operations for just under two years, but the all prep work we had done; the drawing-up and fine-tuning of schematics, and the building of ships alike was enough to send my brain spinning out on a whole manner of different tangents. As much as it was mostly obvious why my father had decided on this course of action; it was difficult to think that unless we could convince him, it would all end up as wasted time.

He sat there, tired and wary, clearly expecting more of a reaction than what we had so far given him, and I could see something within his eyes that spoke of something weightier than merely wanting us all to be ready to go back online. The more I thought about it, the more I felt sure that there was more than one reason to cause him to come out with such a blunt statement, especially considering that our family was a democracy and not a dictatorship. At least, it used to be.

Dad was a father first and employer second, and it stood to reason that he would have to take into account the health of his sons rather than that of his organisation before anything else, as we were really one and the same once a person looked at the whole picture.

He took a breath, and ran his hands agitatedly through his greying hair, and I felt that normal flash of protectiveness that was inherent in every one of us Tracys, whether it be by blood, marriage or adoption. It was clear that my father was stressed to the max over recent and current events, and it was difficult for me, because for once; I had no idea on how to make it better.

We remained silent as he ran his eyes over us again, taking in the bearings of each and every one of us, and I catalogued each detail myself as my father's gaze hovered, penetrating and committing each fact to memory; no doubt placing each negative point as a dark mark against his name.

"I owe the lot of you an explanation." He sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily. "There are a number of points why, and I have conferred with Brains on each and every one of them to make sure that they are legitimate, and not just a father overreacting. He agrees with me on every point, as do Kyrano and Onaha, although they have insisted that it is up to me in the end."

Sensing our father's stress, Scott placed a bracing hand on Dad's shoulder and I watched as he drew strength from my brother's wordless support. I sent silent, wordless thanks to Scotty, for once again being there and for being himself, as usual, not caring about his own worries; only of our dad and his concerns.

"Before I properly go into the reasons, I must first impress on all of you how proud I am on how you all worked together on that first day of break. This will be... difficult to talk about to say the least, but we all need to realise that we need to address this as a group. I am free to talk to any one of you boys," he told my brothers and me, "and even you and Fermat as well Tin-Tin, if you wish; for you know that I consider the both of you as much my children as I do any of my sons."

The two young teens nodded. I hadn't ever had much to do with them, because they were usually either at school when I was here, or I was on 'Five when they were home. I didn't know them as well as my brothers, but I knew that it was something that I should probably make sure to remedy.

"The first reason is by far the most important; the safety of every single person in this family. All of us. Our security both as a family and as an organisation is of paramount importance, and if none of you feel safe even at home, how on earth are you going to be able to feel safe out on a rescue? I hate the idea of having someone being able to waltz right into our home and threaten us all! I hate that it is my fault that you were almost killed because of _my_ idea! How do you all think that makes me feel, knowing that my sons and my family were going to die around me, and there was nothing I could do about it?"

His voice slowly rose with the guilt he was feeling, and I knew that my dad was terrified. I could see that it was a result of that terror that he was being so loose-tongued. He was never usually this free with his feelings, and I knew that it was significant indeed if he was getting so worked up.

Dad inhaled deeply, and moved onwards. "My second point is the state of health we all are at currently. I know for a fact that none of us are sleeping properly; either from nightmares, memories, worries and stress. We all have them. I have them." He added. "Even if the 'Birds were in any fit shape to mount a rescue, we are all too exhausted to fly straight. I don't want any accidents." Another point to Dad. But I was thinking up a few of my own.

"That tiredness is obviously impacting on everything. As we all know, there have been a few people getting ill because of that." He gestured towards Gordy and Virge at that, and there were looks exchanged of knowing, resigned acceptance of the situation. It was then, inevitably, that all their gazes lingered on me.

"We, are all worried about one of our members," (thanks Dad, I think they already knew that) "And although I know that we all want to get straight back on the horse, I really don't feel comfortable with the idea of any of us being in so much danger. As both a boss, and a father, that is my point in fault."

That seemed to be the piece that kind of broke the camel's back, at least where Scott's patience was concerned. Sure, he was still sitting there, supportive of Dad as ever, but his mouth clearly seemed to have other plans. Spokesperson as ever for us brothers, Scott opened his yapper to voice the thoughts that, I at least was thinking, and I saw the looks that each of our other brothers, as well as young Tin-Tin and Fermat had on their faces, and I realised that we might just have a fighting chance.

"Dad." Scott said quietly. Think about it. We chose to work for IR. You asked us, with every bit of assurance and consideration as to what we would be giving up. As much as we might take a while to get back to operating capacity, closing down IR permanently would take more away from us than actually giving us anything." Scott paused, losing his track of thought suddenly, looking to Virgil for assistance. My little brother obliged, with the weird telepathic-conversation-sign-language thing the two of them had working overtime, as usual.

"We all knew the risks when we started this, Dad. There is always the reality that we'll be in danger every time we head out in the 'Birds, and not only because of the situations we face at the danger zone. We all trained for this; we know that there is a possibility that one of us may not come home one day, but we're—" He was cut off with a sudden round of coughing; the huskiness of his voice and the wet sound of his chest probably wasn't helping to argue his case, but it affected him every year: it wasn't all that different this time around.

It seemed it was Gordon's turn to argue. He stepped up and immediately continued with whatever it was that Virgil had been about to say. He had risen to his feet as Virgil had begun to speak, and stood braced, feet apart, shoulders tense as though proving that not only was he here for the fight for what he wanted, but he also was proving that he was willing to wait there until it happened. If that was being a part of a fully-operational IR, well then, that was what was going to occur.

"Virge is right Dad." His tone was firm. "You've taught us to be selfless, to care for others and always be willing to give a hand for those in need. By God; that's practically the basis of what IR is in the first place!"

"We'll be giving the Hood what he wanted if we shut down!" Alan sprang up, almost cutting Gordon off as he added his own swirling thoughts to the mix. "What is it that you told me in 'One, Dad? 'We can't save everyone. No matter how much we want to.' The guy who told me that is living proof that we can't let stuff tear us down. The Hood wanted us to break down like this. He wanted to tear us apart as much as he wanted to kill us; he hated us and he didn't want us to survive. Us coming back and doing what we do best is letting him know that we don't give a shit what he thinks, and it's what we want. We're hope, and he's the darkness. If we let him win, what happens to the rest of us? What happens to the world?"

Tin-Tin and both Hackenbackers nodded, seemingly thinking that everything that needed to be said had been vocalised. I didn't think that they were truly comfortable within the roiling hotbed of Tracys, but they had still placed forward their input, and that was all we really needed to make a fully informed and unanimous decision.

I hadn't realised exactly how much Alan had matured until those words passed his lips. That was exactly what I would have said. I figured that it was time to add my fruit to the punch bowl; I just hoped that the flavour of it didn't turn everything else sour. It amused me endlessly, because despite how the situation was riding on whether we were going to stay operational, at least seven voices called out simultaneously, "Alan, language!"

We all chuckled a little, and then faces sobered again, as everyone tried to absorb all parts of the discussion so far.

I shifted uncomfortably on my seat, I was both hot and cold at the same time; if that was even possible, but I addressed the last thing that my father had mentioned, and I think at that moment, to him; it was the most important.

"I really want us back online Dad." My voice was tired, and the worry in everyone's eyes strengthened when they looked at me. I soldiered on though, breathing deeply into my fatigue-tight chest, in order to get some volume out of my dry throat to help back up my statement.

"I'd feel much better off knowing that people get to keep their lives rather than I get smothered by the mother-hen brigade." A smirk touched my lips at my brothers' expressions of mock outrage, letting them know that I was joking, but then my resolve hardened. "There is nothing that you guys can do for me really, Dad. It's all up to what my body decides to do. What will make me happiest though, is that one more person gets the chance to live because we're doing what makes us a family, and what ultimately makes us thrive; caring for others. I'll be right here." I pointed to the armchair beneath me. "I know that you're all desperate not to let me out of your sight at the moment, and I really don't blame you for that, but I ain't going anywhere. Not while you lot are out there. It'll be no different to what'd be if I was up on 'Five."

We gave a collective flinch at that, but it was just one of the things that we needed to work through as a family. We needed some more raw discussions like this one to circumvent and then crush all the feelings of unease that had been planted, but I hoped that we had made enough of an impression on Dad to show him that we were going to be fine. All of us.

I knew then, as the thought formed in my head there was something that wasn't right, a feeling rising in my heart that I didn't quite yet know what it was. But as I waited with bated breath for our father to consider each of our arguments, and come to a resolution, or at least, one based on compromise, I knew that it was something that I was going to have to try work out.


	18. Musing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

My father kicked the lot of us out of the room then, informing us with his tired, purple-ringed eyes and weary, slumped form-in-the-seat that he needed to consider everything we had told him in more detail before he would make his final decision. He kept Brains with him, of course, the guy was to Dad what Buzz Lightyear was to Woody the Sheriff; forever rational, loyal and true to truth and friendship in the face of Dad's paranoid and somewhat impulsive mind. I hoped that with Brains on the case we could firmly reassert our status as an on-the-way-to-operational International Rescue.

I could genuinely and fully understand the idea that Dad needed absorb-assess-and-find-alternate-solution time, but in my mind, —perhaps that was just me utterly and completely echoing Scott, (now that was a worry)— I really didn't want Dad to be alone to try and puzzle out something that was clearly causing him a great deal of anguish.

I leaned on the wall in the hallway as my brothers and I filed out, wearily rubbing my eyes, but unwilling to head any place that even resembled a bed right now. I was truthfully growing very tired of _being_ tired and sleeping all the time, and I reckoned that there wasn't really any use to me going very far, if my father was only going to turn around and ask us to reconvene sooner rather than later. I wondered how comfortable the floor could be. I didn't much feel like standing for an extended length of time either, and since there were no chairs within easy reach, I decided that the floorboards were going to be the next best thing to stop the aching tiredness from collapsing my legs from beneath me.

Virgil stood in front of me, taking in my tired eyes, and rather over-grandiosely and much too mysteriously announced to the world (or the hall; let's not be picky here), "Operation Thirty-Six is now in motion!"

Scott, standing next to me —looking rather drained and world-weary himself— looked from Virgil to our two youngest brothers and made rather an expression of being flummoxed. I was glad that I wasn't the only one who was thinking that the kids had suddenly decided to take an excursion to the loony bin. If I were to make a guess, I wouldn't hesitate in saying that they'd made rather a field trip out of it. Both Fermat and Tin-Tin appeared to be a lot more clued in than either of us was at the moment. I couldn't help but feel a distinct sense of fifth (or sixth) wheel syndrome there. It wasn't something that I liked to experience with such familiarity.

I wasn't given much more time to puzzle over the weirdness of younger siblings, as Virgil helped in dragging Scott and I up the stairs to the rec room on the next level. I was sort of confused as to why exactly we were being more or less forced to plunk ourselves down on the couches, but the whole point of the exercise was clear when Alan literally bounced over to the large entertainment system in the center of the far wall.

There were a number of couches and comfortable armchairs arranged in a semicircle around the huge mahogany cabinet; and there were also a few mismatched footstools that concealed the sizeable board-game stash that we owned; over two decades of collective family fun hidden in the compartments beneath the cushions. The entirety of the right-hand wall was covered in shelving that contained DVDs and old recorded videos —Dad had never had been able to bear parting with the old VHS player, and had asked Brains to restore it so that it was still useable— tucked within every available space. There were an infinite number of genres; western, sci-fi, dance, musical, drama. There were even a sizeable collection of chick-flicks and romantic comedies that were often perused by Onaha and Tin-Tin. I was sure that Gordon and Scott watched them as well, if only to bag out the characters and overly dramatised scenes. I found it endlessly amusing, and I was counting down the days when I would one day be able to catch them in the act. It would end up a very satisfactory victory the moment I would finally be able to catch them off guard; the guy who was basically macho Big Brother personified, and Mr. Sir-Prank-a-Lot.

Only two of the disc covers seemed to have been displaced, and they were currently being held triumphantly into the air by a certain younger brother. Tin-Tin and Fermat grinned at each other at the kid's enthusiasm.

Star Wars: Episode IV or Wall-E?

Oh, how to choose! We hadn't done this for the longest time; just us sons and daughters of Tracy Isle plonked on the couch with laugh-iness and popcorn, just to watch a film and revel in the amazingness of siblings and memories. Our lives had been far too hectic with the rescue business, and because of the fact that at least one of our number was up on the station while the others were on earth. It was only really around the Christmas period that we managed to do anything of the familial bonding sort and I found that I had missed it rather badly now it was right in front of me, if I was telling myself the truth.

I considered the choices that my three younger brothers had put out, and I deliberated, grinning as I imagined the argument that probably would have occurred over the shortlisting of the final two options. Alan and Gordon would have been all about Star Wars doubtlessly, but I also knew for sure that it was definitely Virgil and Tin-Tin who had decided Wall-E was going to be the kid-pick of the day. I was sure that it was mostly to do with the CGI and the inner artist in my kid brother. Tin-Tin I knew, despite her status as resident tomboy had a habit of cooing over the supposedly female robot. (I just knew that they were both hopelessly obsessed with both engineering and Disney. Who wasn't? Disney I mean, who likes engineering?)

Now. I had a decision to make. Awesome action-packed adventure with antagonism and mystery, or childish-amusement chirruping machinery fun? I didn't know about the others, but my vote was definitely going to be _Wall-E_. Hee! Oh childhood; there you are again!

There was that thing in the back of my mind again, about Dad tearing out his hair as he tried to decide what to do with our future, but I realised with a jolt of oh-joy-useless-person-I-can't-do-anything-right-now, that we were just going to have to wait.

I was wedged rather comfortably with my blanket in the left-hand corner of the couch, with my head pillowed on one of the cushions that I had propped against the arm-rest, gazing sleepily at the screen as the demented robot decided that he was going to go jet-skiing in space without a tether. Gordon had claimed the other end of the couch, with Scott sprawled against the front of the sofa near our feet, ostensibly sitting in the spot that allowed for everyone to make the most of the bowl of popcorn that had been made. I rather thought that in absent-minded contrary he had eaten the contents of at least two-thirds of the entire mixing-bowl himself.

Fermat was flat on his back staring at the screen upside-down, giving me a sympathetic headache that was clearly not being felt by the kid at all; his glasses were almost slipping off of his nose, but he was so invested in the story that he didn't seem to have noticed.

Tin-Tin, in contrast, was sitting straight-backed and cross-legged in the pose that I knew she found most comfortable, but I knew that I just didn't have the discipline to stay that composed and still for so long.

Virgil and Alan were by far the most amusing in their chosen film-watching positions. Al was conveniently sprawled over the arm of the chair he had somehow managed to boot Scott out of; it was easy for him to get into it, because older brother had foolishly vacated it while he had gone to fetch his chosen snack. Upon his return, Alan had managed to hold on to the side of the chair in fierce tenacity that had all the fire of a wildcat in full screech, and not even the unexpected reality of a tickle-torture was enough for the kid to relinquish his spot. Hence why Scott was on the floor.

Virgil had made me chuckle, with a mixture of concern and fond reminiscence as he had curled himself up into the gap created by the sides of each of the armchairs and couch. He had somehow found a comfortable enough position to watch the film in peace, but I was worried, because my immediate younger brother had only sought out small, confining spaces when he was worried, scared or fretting about something or someone.

It was around that point in the movie that I heard an almost-imperceptible creaking sound from the doorway, and peered around the couch to see Dad leaning fondly up against the walkway, his arms hooked comfortably across his chest, his face a little less drawn and a little less worried than before, but still quite stressed all the same. He caught my curious gaze, and shook his head, motioning for me to go back to the film, and then smiled at me and turned, his footsteps padding back down the hall.

I relaxed a little. It just might appear that we were going to be in the clear.

##

When the movie finished thirty minutes later, and we had all stretched ourselves out of positions of numb behinds and stiff spines, there were a sudden, loud number of muffled growling noises; the calm silence of the room that the film-viewing happy-ending had induced shattering noisily but cheerfully with the assertion that it was well past time for lunch.

I stood up slowly, trying to stave off the doubtless beginnings of another migraine to absorb the not-welcome sensation of a wave of unexpected dizziness crashing into me. I swayed on the spot a little, clutching at the side of the couch as I waited for my brain to return me to a satisfactory level of equilibrium-based functioning, ignoring the background noise as I waited for the blood to return to my face. I breathed sharply to dispel the faint sense of nausea _that_ induced, before gasping a little as my chest stuttered the breath. It fizzed beneath my breastbone for a second, and then receded completely, leaving me blinking a little in _what-the-hell-was-that?_ surprise.

Virgil gripped my arm worriedly, but I just shook my head. "I think I need something to eat." It was true; I was hungry for once. Whatever I had been given was allowing me to have a bit of appetite, despite the residual sick feeling that still lurked deep in my gut. I rubbed my sore shoulder absently, wriggling my fingers to get the blood flowing. I'd been leaning on the arm a lot more as the ache ceased from the injured joint, but it seemed to be giving me a lot more pins and needles than I ever really wanted. I guessed that I probably should be asking if I could take the sling off for more range of motion; it was undoubtedly seizing up from lack of use.

I hitched a grin on my face; _wasn't it great to be hungry?_ , and followed my siblings down to the kitchen.


	19. Another Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

Lunch was… interesting to say the least.

Imagine an oft-debated argument, two guys with _extremely_ differing opinions, and food as both pawns and prizes of war, and you have an intriguing over-a-meal discussion as a result.

Scott and Gordon were flinging their own misguided and obviously clashing views as to which were the best-of-all-time film we had seen as kids; _Meet the Robinsons_ or _Finding Nemo_. I don't think I needed to specify who was for the fish film. I found myself silently voting for the one we had just watched. Nothing, and I mean _nothing_ beats mischievous robots in outer space, despite the fact that the idea of the motherboard taking over by force kind of scared me witless. Never mind that my ship had done her utmost to protect me, and had succeeded in keeping me and my family alive when all seemed lost. Sometimes brilliant, overachieving minds suck.

Fermat's eyes were flickering between the two as they sparred across the table and a rapidly dwindling pile of food; one sandwich taken per point given for a valid opinion as decided by the ref. The kid was just about to go cross-eyed with the speed with which the good-natured insults were flying back and forth. I wouldn't have been surprised if he were developing a headache. I knew that I was.

Virgil seemed to have been roped in as official mediator, and I was sure that someone was going to end up wearing lunch if they didn't calm down. I smirked as I saw Alan filching Virgil's sandwiches off his plate while he was distracted. I didn't blame him, not considering the likelihood of him losing fingers if he tried to get something off the platter between the combatants. I had to admit that there was really no chance of anyone getting their share of lunch unless Gords and Scott were distracted reasonably soon. Flying fingers were just as dangerous a defensive weapon as cheese toasties when it came to a Tracy man's possession of their edibles. Kyrano and Onaha had vanished as soon as we had descended on the food so there wasn't even anyone who was able to give a well-aimed swipe to the miscreants; none of us dared to interfere for fear of losing vital body parts.

Fortunately, a distraction came in the form of fathers and the temporarily-displaced concern that was our future.

Brains and Dad had entered with all the stealth of a couple of spies—for all the good it did in not drawing our attention. Almost immediately, Alan bounced in his seat; leaning forward across the table to fix our father with a stare that was clearly intended to be penetrating and intense, but only succeeded in coming across as overly eager and slightly little-kiddish. The kid certainly had a lot to learn about the Tracy Glare of Doom.

Dad looked just slightly taken aback as seven faces looked up in perfectly synchronised expectation but he only shook his head in response, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth as he took in the scene. "Wait until I've eaten would you? That was… difficult to say the least and I'd very much rather have a fully-fuelled stomach before talking if the lot of you wouldn't mind."

Brains had already slipped away from being the center of attention, swiping a few sandwiches off of Gordon's plate without my brother noticing. It wasn't a difficult task, seeing as my younger sibling was staring at Dad with his mouth wide open, but I was surprised that Scott didn't notice as his over-burdened plate suddenly lost a few of his hard-won prizes. He was usually so observant, Big Brother One, but I supposed that he had other things on his mind.

There was really no way we could fault Dad for wanting to delay the questions that were undoubtedly bubbling with the forthcoming deliverance of his decision, but I had to bite my lip to hide a grin as Alan —in all his still-stubborn, still-fourteen-year-old glory— went to open his mouth in protest. He was stopped before he had even begun as someone (Gordon, if one was to judge by the smug grin on said brother's face) gave him a hit of hard-footed-almost-bruising contact to the shins.

Alan leveled a scorching, pouty glare at Gordon, but otherwise shut himself up by cramming a sandwich between his teeth, chewing furiously to stop himself from blurting out something unwelcome. I felt a flash of sarcastic-tinged pride. _I think he's learning!_

Between sneaking glimpses at Dad to see if I could divine what he was thinking (just by burning a hole in his forehead, apparently) and watching my brothers decimate the full platter of sandwiches in record time, I picked a little at the tomato and cheese toasty I had grabbed before the battle had commenced. Despite my newfound hunger, I really was getting sick of sandwiches, but I was also reluctant to attempt to stomach anything else because of the rather heavy threat of bringing it straight back up.

We were all just about done stuffing our collective faces and were shifting in eager anticipation, when Dad's iPhone suddenly buzzed rather insistently, the loud, raw acoustic strains of Leonard Cohen's _Hallelujah_ overriding the loud silence of our intense attention that had zoomed in as soon as the last mouthful disappeared past Dad's teeth.

His lips tightened as he fished it out of his pocket, and I knew that he had been able to steel himself to talk to us, but I knew that he was also probably thanking his lucky stars that he was being saved from facing the upcoming voicing of his decision. Even with our respect for him, we were still rather an argumentative bunch when it came down to it.

"Jeff Tracy."

There was a short, two-second, one-sided conversation from the other end of the line, and then Dad was shoving the device roughly back in his jeans, standing up in a rush from the table as though his chair had suddenly turned white-hot beneath him.

"Dad?" Scott asked, blue eyes wide with curiosity. "Who was it?"

Relief shone a little through our father's eyes, lightening the previous apprehension that was already within, and it showed in his voice as he spoke.

"Dr. Kingston is here."

Saved by the phone Dad, saved by the phone. I couldn't help but think how grossly unfair it was that the doctor had arrived now, rather than perhaps even ten minutes later, but I knew that nothing else was going to matter to my father until he had ensured that there was nothing else wrong with me to exacerbate the more-than-usual worry that was already emanating from him like a noxious gas, infecting everyone else around him, although it was completely unintentional.

I was told to make my way to the infirmary while my father headed out to the landing strip, having asked Brains to give the pilot, circling in the air above the island clearance to land on the south shore to enable the good doctor to disembark.

I found myself doing so rather reluctantly. I knew what was to be coming next, and it really wasn't going to be pretty, nor in any way non-painful. Of course not! When was anything ever easy for me?

##

I was right. Ten minutes later, when Dad, Brains, Virgil and Dr. Kingston himself walked towards where I was sitting on my already-assigned bed in the sickroom, I knew before the doctor spoke that I was going to be very much revising my decision on how brilliant a day this was pretty much instantly. It was really too much to ask that the guy wouldn't want to settle in his accommodations before accosting me with all manner of hideous tests, but it seemed that my luck seemed to have abandoned me when it was most needed. Especially when it came to the needles.

Yes. Most of the aforementioned tests would extract the needed fluids from me via the port in my arm, but really didn't make me any less uncomfortable with the idea of anything thin-like and stainless steel-ey to coming anywhere within ten feet of my general vicinity.

We didn't get to the needle-sticking right away, thankfully. The first thing that the doctor did after the formalities like greetings and such were exchanged was ask me, quite seriously, how I thought I was coping, and how my body was feeling so he could gauge what was normal and what wasn't.

I told him —with Dad and Virgil listening intently and adding their own comments when relevant— how I had been having a much better reception to food over the last twenty-four hours as well as the decreased vomiting, but also the increased fatigue and the incidents with my balance and the vertigo I had been experiencing when I was too quick to rise to a standing position.

"I'd like to keep a monitor on that while I'm here, but there is much to be said for your appetite; we really do need to increase your overall mass; and that is a really good way for your body to help itself." He looked at me intently; his eyes roving over the jutting bones in my face, and the way that my clothes hung off of me, and I was all for agreeing with his rather obvious perception of the situation.

"What I'd like to start off with is a complete blood draw and a full set of imaging on the areas that we know were giving you the most trouble. We haven't had you on the chemo for long enough to see much of an effect on the tumours yet, but I would like to screen for any changes in the spots that we detected in your initial scans that may have been altered by any of the drugs, as well as to see how fast a rate the lymphoma is spreading." He looked at me sympathetically. "You're probably going to be a bit sore and tired after today, John. You haven't been moving about all that much, I am guessing, but this is going to require a great deal of shifting. The blood draws and the imaging tests will also probably wear you out, so don't be concerned if you begin to feel tireder than normal. It is natural when your energy levels aren't up to scratch."

I nodded. I knew that from last time. I was pleased that Dr Kingston had said it anyway, because despite their prior familiarity of me being this way, my dad and brother really weren't the ones who were going though all the physical experiences involved.

But first thing was first; the basic check-up.

Heart, ears, and temperature were all considered to be A-ok. The stethoscope used to listen to my heart was cold, as he had asked my to lift my shirt to access my chest, the bare skin erupting in goose-pimples. There was a comment on the paleness of my skin, and the usual joke from my brother about turning into a vampire, but that was disregarded on the statement, or lack thereof, of the doctor upon the complete removal of my shirt to check the state of my PICC line.

I had by this point, totally forgotten about the existence of the thrombocytopenia, nor had I actually paid attention to the state of my body in a visual capacity for a few days now, so it was really a surprise to me when I heard the barely-suppressed gasps of shock when I emerged from the neck of my shirt. Brains and Virgil had both been giving me meds to help control it, but it was a case of 'if I ignore it, it isn't there' with my forgetting of it; it wasn't painful, as such, but I had become so used to the pain from my injuries and the tiredness from the chemo that I probably wouldn't have actually noticed if they did hurt.

I looked down at my midriff and bare, stick-like arms and wrinkled my nose a little in disdain. Mottled bruising extended from my left side, down around my back and dipped down beneath the waistband of my sweats, dark and purple beneath the fluorescent lights by which I was being examined. I poked at it with detached interest, wincing a little as the skin whitened and let out a little flinch of pain at the touch. I guessed that it was probably where I had taken the spill in the lounge yesterday, and I also remembered that I had whacked my elbow on the counter as well. _Yup._ I examined the limb; it was definitely a whopper.

Shrugging off the concerned expressions on the faces of my dad and brother, I waited to see what the doctor may have to say about the apparent morphing of my midriff into what appeared to be a ripened plum. I needn't have worried. Dr Kingston only ran his gloved fingers lightly over the skin and nodded his head a little at something.

"You have been taking the cell-growth factor I prescribed you, yes?" He asked, looking at both Brains and I simultaneously. I shrugged, motioning to the older man to answer. I had literally no idea what I was taking, or even if it was helping at all. I just knew that there were quite a few medications I was taking orally during the day —or in IV form if I was out of it. I really wasn't keen on actually registering what was being absorbed by my body. I was kind of numb to it at this point.

"W-we have been gi-giv- administering the meds as r-re-recommended, but we weren't a-ah didn't know that John had reached such a heavy st-stat-condition of d-discolouration."

Dr Kingston made a few notes on the data pad that had been a constant all throughout my last treatment, and I was thankful that the guy was not only an oncologist but also an ER doctor and a former MD, that I wasn't having to have copious amounts of notes and needed to continuously explain the procedures that I was undergoing to anyone else. It really made things a lot easier on everyone.

I found myself next undergoing a number of scans from the topography and imaging equipment that was stored within the bowels of the island behind the wall of the infirmary.

It was really quite ingenious. The main body of the sickroom contained the beds and medical supplies needed to treat minor injuries such as broken bones and the stitching of cuts and lacerations, but if a person were to flick one of the controls hidden as a light switch, the entire far wall slid open to reveal a whole host of machines designed for in-depth analysis of injuries any of us may incur from a rescue. Thankfully we hadn't had cause to use the PET scanner or MRI machine for any of us as yet (and God protect us from them ever, _ever_ being needed), but as of right now, it was brilliant that we had them on hand.

I found myself proving Dr. Kingston's predictions on my weariness true as I nearly fell asleep on the table while having the scan of my chest done, despite my very best efforts.

I was drowsing a little after Dad and Virge had assisted me back to my bed an hour and a half later, and my doctor had retreated over to the light-screen to examine the results of the images that had been taken. I wasn't totally unaware, I was more resting my eyes than anything, but I was suddenly jerked into complete consciousness by my younger brother.

"Sorry John." He apologised, running his hand affectionately over my forehead. I leaned up, blinking mightily to clear the cobwebs before gazing questioningly at him. He wouldn't have disturbed me without good reason, so I found that I wasn't at all angry that I had been roused.

Seeing that he had my attention, Virgil spoke quickly and I noticed my father and oncologist moving over towards me, Dr Kingston holding one of my films in his hands.

I felt my stomach plummet into the mattress beneath me. What now?

My brother gestured for me to give him my bound arm as he spoke, sliding the arm slowly out of the foam loop. Despite the period that had passed since I had injured it, I had still been warned not to move it too fast because of the possibility of throwing it out again. I was puzzled as to what he was doing, at least until he began to press his fingers into my palm and around my fingers.

"I saw you stretching your fingers when you got up from the couch earlier." He explained, getting me to clench my hand into a fist. "Has it been numb or tingly at all? Have you been having any trouble with feeling or touch?"

I was worried now. There was something in my films that was undoubtedly worrying them, and despite the necessity of my answer, I found that I was reluctant to reply, considering how strange Virgil was acting.

Hesitantly, I nodded, frowning as my brother's fingers moved their way up towards my shoulder. I swallowed.

"Um. Yeah, a little. I figured that I've just been leaning on it too hard, and the shoulder isn't quite ready to take all my weight on it yet. Why?"

"Because." Dr Kingston then stepped in; lifting up the image he was holding to the light above my head for the luminescence to shine through the plastic. "From what I can see in your film, it appears that the nodes beneath your arm seem to be growing in rather a fast manner. If you look here." he pointed to a point on the image that showed my shoulder and the region of my upper humerus. The complex weave of the nerves that made up my right brachial plexus was also visible. "…It appears that they are pressing on your axillary nerve. That is why I wanted to inquire as to whether you had been experiencing any numbness or pins and needles at all. It seems to have caused a case of compressive neuropathy, which is basically a pressing of your nerve from the growth of the lymphoma."

I felt sick. I had already spilled my guts once today, and I had really no desire to do so again, but I couldn't help but feel rather idiotic at what had just been revealed to me. I had thought that it was normal; that the healing joint was supposed to have done that, but I had never thought that it could be as a result of my cancer. How fucking stupid was I? I had known that I had tumours growing there, and yet nothing had registered in my brain.

I took a second to gulp in a breath, temporarily shaking off my anger at my own idiocy, before I spoke, my voice filled with apprehension and the feeling that I most likely wouldn't like the answer to it.

"How do we fix it? Can we fix it?"

My dad, pale and silent up until now, despite talking to me so calmly and animatedly to me while I was having the tests done, answered my question.

"We'll need to take you to the mainland for surgery to remove them."


	20. Shatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

My doctor watched my face carefully as I processed that last spoken word and there was really no way in hell that I was able to prevent myself from not beginning to freak out. I had known that the subtype of lymphoma I was battling could develop extremely quickly —especially in the recurrent state I was saddled with— but I sensed the copper-tasting flutterings of panic, as I realised how bad it was that the tumor beneath my arm had grown enough to impinge on my musculature and nerve structures. Enough to require removal surgery apparently, despite the treatments I had been on.

If it wasn't already blatantly obvious, I completely despised the idea of anything foreign or not pertinent to biological processes being injected, entered, or used to cut into my body. Even something as simple as an ear piercing —which all of my brothers but Gordon had in a single ear— was enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. It was very much of a surprise that I was even able to cope with the idea of having the PICC and IVs I had needed over the course of the past eight years. It was something that I had gotten used to merely by virtue of ignorance and learned tolerance.

Put simply, the idea of having surgery, even as relatively minor as this one appeared to be, was enough to make me sick.

I froze like a deer in the headlights when Dr. Kingston cleared his throat, indicating very clearly that there was more to say.

There was more? _Why?_ I cried out inside my head, fear and sick twisting deep within my chest as I clenched my fists tighter against the mattress. _Why must everything be as worse as possible when it comes to me?_

My father knew what it was, the terrible knowledge that Dr. Kingston was about to divulge. I could see in his eyes that it really wasn't good, knew that there was something else hovering on the edges of my reality and nothingness that I couldn't prevent; only live through it, if the fates even allowed me that. I knew that my terror about the surgery was nothing compared to what was coming next.

Dr. Kingston's voice was terribly hard and cold at first, but I knew that it was only his emotions being clamped down upon within the vice of his professionalism. I knew that this was difficult for him too.

I inhaled shakily. This was going to be as far from easy as it was possible to be. I knew it. My insides turned to ice as the words passed the doctor's lips, and I wanted him to take them back, retract them so that what they represented and meant wasn't actually true. No, no and no. Negative. Ain't a snowball's chance in hell, thank-you very much!

Huh. Yeah, right.

Dr. Kingston's voice was soft, soothing, but it really did nothing to cushion the blow. "There is also an indication that the tumors in your right infraclavicular region are growing rather rapidly. You've said that you've been experiencing a little tightness in your chest?" I stared at him, my gut sinking and twisting rapidly and simultaneously. No. Surely not?

"I'd like to do a more in-depth check of that particular area, because I am concerned that they may well be close to encroaching on your right lung. It could be an indication that your body is not properly reacting to the chemo regimen and we may need to consider the eventuality of having to change the therapy structuring and dose."

No.

No.

No. No. No. NO!

I couldn't explain the terror that seared through me then. I had no way to describe the emotions rushing through me as they roiled, hissed, spit and tore through everything coherent in my mind so I resembled nothing but a messed up tumble of unidentifiable feelings and thoughts.

There was no way that it could possibly be failing. I was only three weeks in! He had only just said that there would be no shrinkage of the masses in such a short time. What in all the jacked-up realms of improbable possibility had I done to have to have this threat trembling over my head like a guillotine? Where was all the fairness in the world?

In my frenzied cacophony of thoughts I somehow realised that there were other avenues for us to explore, I knew that; but I was still so stuck on the possibility that the regimen could not properly be working, really brought any other shred of cognizant thought to a screeching and very juddering halt.

I could die if the treatment didn't work.

That flash of clarity did jack-shit for my body's self control. The churning in my gut wasn't totally due to the chemo nausea, and the reason for my current state of mind really wasn't helped by the idea that I was going to have something cut out of me either. I closed my eyes against the spinning in my brain and the tendrils of paralysing dread, anger and utterly nameless terror spreading throughout my chest and tried to breathe.

I had been in too much shock and a deep haze of confusion when the staging tests had been done back in Kansas to have registered much. I had known that I could die, even expected it back at fourteen. However, now that I was a lot more with it in terms of real-world-ness, and had been somewhat 'comfortable' with the whole idea of my illness (if that was a suitable means to describe it) it certainly left a hell of a lot more space for fear to take hold within the clouded spaces in my mind.

Taking deep enough of a breath to ensure that I wasn't going to faint, though at this point, it didn't seem likely; I gripped the edge of the bed to anchor myself against the rushing in my ears. I fought against it, as it promised imminent throwing up if my mind didn't stop scaring itself _right the hell now_.

This would work. It just had to. I refused to let any other depressing thoughts through. It would.

But it was so damn _hard_.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I dug my fingers into the sheets in an attempt to dissolve some of the impenetrable tension I could feel thrumming through my shoulders and neck, to dispel the terribly raw ache that was in my chest, but I could feel my barriers begin to collapse from within. I moved a trembling hand, reaching blindly to brush fingers beneath my arm, giving an internal shudder as I came across the swelling that was much more prominent than I had paid any attention to. It was the only tangible, visible proof outside of electromagnetic imaging to show that I was as ill as I was, that there was actually a reason that I was dying, despite our efforts; pure and simple.

It was rather rubbery and malleable, about two-thirds of the size of a quarter, and I hadn't really noticed exactly how tender the skin was to the touch. I hissed in a breath as the area gave a painful twinge in protest to my prodding. I bit my lip, savouring the pain if it meant that I was going to be able to let myself stay in control. The agonising fear roiled in my chest, and I could imagine what the swelling from the nodes in my upper shoulder and chest could be doing to vital organs.

The doctor had moved away from us in the time I hadn't been paying attention, over to the office where I knew the phone was located. I realised that I had somehow missed something, but I assumed that because Dr. Kingston had my files in his hands as I watched him move around through the window, that he was probably taking the steps needed to set up a time for the procedure. I was much less concerned about that now, not with the other news I had been given. _Damn it!_

"John." My father's voice brought my attention back to the here-and-now, and I saw his face up close as he leaned in to examine me, his own fear and demons as clear as the northern star in the heavens. I knew that there was a tightness around my eyes and around my mouth that betrayed me as I endeavoured to keep my rebelling emotions under wraps, but I was failing as hard as I was trying as I watched my father's agony unfold from within his blue eyes.

I didn't intend it, but as I tried to clear my throat to acknowledge his unspoken question, the walls that I had built up since before I had been staged crumbled instantly. With all the force of a landslide, they gave way to the mingled, formerly hidden terror and newly-discovered petrification to flood my heart and chest in a tidal wave.

The gulping sound that my throat produced as I tried to swallow my panic let my father know what I was thinking without me having to say a word. He wrapped his arms around me and crushed me close to his chest, and I bunched both fists into his jacket as though he was a lifeline in an ocean of fear and pain, anchoring me to the ground lest I fly wildly untethered into insanity and terror.

"Shh, John, shhhh." Like I was a small child, Dad sank to the bed beside me and leaned against the headboard, the aftershave scent that was as much a part of my childhood as my brothers and summer water-fights and Grandma's hot chocolate enveloping me in warmth. I detached myself from the world and the horrifying waves of reality that crashed down like meteorites, burying my face and inhaling that smell that had brought me comfort and reassurance more times than I could count.

I had nowhere to turn. But my father was there. I was breaking, but Dad was there to help me collect all the pieces. He was the one who would find the superglue and the bandaids and patch me up once again.

My father sheltered me for that too-short time like he had when I was a little boy, afraid of the dark and the monsters and the scary things that I was adamant would come and get me as soon as the night grew dark. He was the one who had shown me the stars, the pinpricks of light in the impenetrable blackness that guided the travellers to safe ports. Dad was the one who had plastered the glow-in-the-dark constellations on the ceiling of my room instead of just passing on Scotty's rocket nightlight, to show me that the dark was only as scary as I let it be.

As much as I wanted to believe it though, I was really finding it difficult to spot those hopeful little pinpricks in the blackness of my current world.

How could we make it better? All I could do was hope and pray that something was salvageable. I could barely think straight; I needed order, I needed clarity, but it was impossible with the state I was in right now. I was going to be cut open, I was going to get so much sicker, and I didn't think I could take it. I didn't know what I was supposed to do, other than try to get where I wanted. The thing was, if my body and it's rebelling against itself didn't stop pretty damn soon, I was going to have nothing left to give. I didn't want to give any more. I was too tired. I closed my eyes tightly.

I had thought that I was doing so well. I had been eating over the past two days; enough to digest at least before I had gotten sick. I had lost a lot of weight, but I had planned to address the issue with the doctor, after my check. But now this had been dropped on me, and I couldn't for the life of me tell which way was up or down. I was so lost, scared and damn sick that I wasn't sure I wanted to do this anymore. It just seemed inevitable that every time something seemed to be going right, the next second it all dropped much further than it had previously.

I didn't want to do this anymore. I wanted out, I wanted it gone. I wanted Mom and Dad and my brothers. I wanted John back.

I felt the damp from my tears on my father's shirt, his firm arms at my back as he did his best to sooth me. I was so far past comprehension and coherency it was laughable, and I was content to stay here forever and never face another day. I didn't want to reemerge and recall the reality of my world, but something cold, dark and slimily unpleasant slid into my stomach to swirl around like a multitude of eels.

How the hell was I going to tell my brothers?


	21. Divergence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

" _Warning… Impact imminent." No!_

" _Thunderbird Five to Tracy Island!"_

I don't want to die…. Please, no… I don't want to!

"… _.Mayday! Mayd-!"_

…

_Sparks and smoke and throbbing and pain._

_Aching, tearing burning, hot, agony. I can't move…._

" _I'm losing all power..."_

" _Back-up systems, failure…. Repeat… Power systems, failing." Twenty percent power in the back-up generator._

" _Repeat. I'm losing all power…"_

I don't, I don't….

I don't want to die….

" _Hold on, John…"…. Just hold on… Hold on, hold on…._

_Hot…. Much too hot. Need to kick the blankets…._

_My brothers…._

_Gordon…. Alan…. Virgil… Scott._

_Dad._

DAD! Papa, please… I can't move…

I can't do it anymore… I don't want—

I don't want to die.

…

_Clouds, smoke, pain, sleepiness… "No. Don't go to sleep, John."_

_Dull, frightening. Numb..._

" _Stay awake. Please…"_

Dad! We're going to die. I don't…. want… I don—

I don't want to die.

I DON'T WANT TO DIE!

I woke screaming, my breath torn away from me; body cold, arms empty, drenched in chilled sweat.

_Darkness… fear… pain. I don't want to die….._

"John?"

Dad? _I don't want to die…._

"Dad? Dad!" I rasped, my eyes opening, searching frantically for light. I had been clenching them shut. I reached out, trembling.

The infirmary was dim, that was all. The lights were out. There— there was light, right near the door.

It's okay. Just breathe.

"Dad." My voice cracked on the word —despite my self-assurance— and I whimpered pitifully, hating myself as I felt my lip tremble again.

"It's okay, Starman. It'll be okay."

Scott. Scotty, not Dad.

"I don't want to die…" I whispered. "I don't want to… Scott…"

I was taken right back to fourteen, Mom was gone, and I was so sick that I was close to collapsing. Scotty. I felt his arms around my chest and I squeezed tightly before disengaging a little to blink and shake the lingering annoyance and horror of the nightmare out of my head. I didn't want to even think about that again.

The mental and emotional strain had clearly been too much, because the terrors had reappeared after an almost week-and-a-half long absence. I knew it was bad if that was happening, and it had felt as though I had been living through the attack all over again. I had forgotten many of the details from up on the station, considering my injuries from the day, and what had happened in the interim between then and now, but it was all so _real_. It had been short thankfully, but no less intense than the real thing. It hadn't escaped my notice though, how much it appeared to have been echoing my current state of mind. Stupid subconscious… Leave me alone already!

I took deep breaths to steady myself, before pulling myself back from the abyss, pushing back the tears and the memories of what had followed that day. Not again I wouldn't. I looked up to meet Scott's gaze, shifting to detangle myself from the clinging woolen blanket.

I felt the familiar tug in my arm and I glanced up to see another IV bag tacked to another line linked to the PICC port. Glucose. That made sense; it meant that my body was getting a source of sugar that I wouldn't be able to bring up, and that meant I would put on some kind of weight. I was glad that that issue seemed to have been sorted.

"You were dreaming." Scott said quietly, giving me his arm for support as I made to struggle my way into an upright position. State the obvious, why don't you, Scott? I think I knew that. I was covered in sweat from the experience, remember?

"Yeah." I muttered. Man, I was glad that the lights were down. My eyes were hurting like nothing else. Where were my glasses when I needed them? Certainly not on my face. No point wearing the contacts when I was falling asleep this often. Man. Could I get any tireder? I rubbed my eyes wearily, trying to force my vision to correct itself. Finally I could see more than fuzzy impressions.

My brother took in the sweat I could feel beading my forehead, along with the way I knew my eyes were creased at the corners with pain from stiffened limbs, and reached his hand around to rub my back between the shoulder blades. I winced a little as Scott's palm pushed the skin of my back over the bony nubs of my spine (it kind of hurt when you had no fat on you whatsoever) and I leaned forward to let him know that it was uncomfortable. He moved to my shoulder instead, and I screwed my eyes shut as the headache that had been looming most of the day pushed its way to the front of my mind. It let me know in no uncertain terms that I should really be going back to sleep round about now to dispel it.

The thing was, I really didn't want to head back to the terrors anytime soon.

Ignoring the vague pain in my shoulder as I raised my arms to stretch out the kinks, I was unpleasantly reminded of what had occurred before I had fallen into exhaustion. I made a concentrated effort to disregard it, and was pretty successful, if you didn't go and count in the wet, dark sensation that gurgled deep in my gut. Properly meeting Scott's gaze, I swallowed, hoping that he would get from my eyes alone what I wanted to communicate without me having to actually vocalise my thoughts. Too much effort was required from me right now to even contemplate it, not when it was a struggle for me to even move properly.

My brother's face was grim, and I could tell within a split second that he had already guessed that something was going on. I could just come straight out with it then.

"The results weren't good." I told him quietly, my gaze dropping back to my hands as I spoke, wishing that I could take them back as to not burden my brother with something else to worry about. The nails were brittle and chipping, another side effect. I licked cracked lips, and winced as the saliva slipped into the crevices. I blinked a little as a cup of water appeared beneath my nose, and I took a trembling sip as I spoke. "Can you help me out to the lounge? I need to tell the kids what's happening."

Big Brother's eyes had softened as I looked up at him again, and I felt calm suddenly flooding my chest like a breath of warm air. "It's alright." He told me, squeezing my shoulder to indicate his silent support. "Dad sat us down about an hour ago and told us about the surgery. We've had some time to talk about it; you've been asleep since two." He gestured towards the clock on the wall, and I felt my eyebrows crawl up my forehead towards my almost non-existent hairline. It was nearly six in the evening.

 _Hang on._ I looked at Scott, and I actually registered what he had said. Dad had told them about the surgery, how the cancer was spreading. They knew how the regimen might not be working properly, that the chances of it failing had risen. I didn't have to tell them.

 _Oh thank God_. Relief bloomed in my chest as I discovered I didn't have to watch as their faces crumbled, as their tentative happiness was crushed, as yet another stitch was loosened from the fabric that was holding my health and sanity in one piece. I didn't have to worry about being so emotional over it. I could put up a wall to separate myself from reality, to pretend that it wasn't as bad as it was. I could disillusion myself for a bit before I had to face the actuality of having the procedure done.

That was a balm to me, because I knew that if I were to begin the tears again —as I knew would happen if I were forced to think of it in depth— I wouldn't be able to stop, and there were only a few people in the world that I would allow to watch me cry.

Maybe it was selfish of me to be thankful that I didn't have to deliver the news myself. It definitely wasn't fair on my father, but I knew that I couldn't have hoped to do the job myself without breaking down, that I didn't have enough of a grip on the situation at the moment to hope that I could tell them of the issues I was facing with any sort of composure. I wondered where Virgil had gone, and how he was coping with it.

Thinking back to before the doc had told me of the latest development, I found that I couldn't remember my brother and Brains actually leaving the room. I thought that they must have, as I knew with certainty that Virgil wouldn't have been able to prevent himself from going hysterical over the idea. It was better that Dad was able to break it gently, despite how difficult it had probably been for him. At least he had Dr. Kingston to help him with the mumbo-jumbo.

Now I thought about it though, I realised that I had only, truthfully been getting the most basic, skeleton information out of the doctor considering my health. Yes, I knew about the thrombocytopenia and the impact of the treatment in the most general way, but I hadn't quite paid enough attention to anything other than getting up and going on with my day as best I could. I came to the conclusion that I didn't really want to go into the medical side of it, I just needed to know whether it was doing what it was supposed to be doing, or not, as the current situation proved. It was fair enough that I wanted and needed to ignore what was happening, especially when there were enough people monitoring my every move. I came to the conclusion that it was a good thing that I had no idea what was going on, aside from the most fundamental of information. I needed to ignore it to believe that I was going to get well. Perhaps that was why the results of my scans had thrown me so badly.

Again, I was brought back to that inescapable conclusion.

Surgery. It was such a simple word, but it was one with so many facets of meaning. I knew even without thinking about it that the fact that I needed the nodes in my arm cut out indicated just how fast the disease was spreading. I had been too much in a state of blind panic before I had slept to actually come to the conclusion that having the tumors removed was going to be the best thing that could possibly occur, despite the possible complications the procedure could bring to me. I shuddered and came out of my unexpected musings. Scott was still looking at me, and I wondered what he was thinking.

"Does Kingston know when the surgery will be yet?" I asked, ignoring the part of my brain that was shouting 'no, don't ask!' rather emphatically. "I know that it'll be soon; he's also worried about the nerve in my arm, and the lung as well. He wants to get a closer look in my chest, and I know that we need to monitor my weight—" I stuttered to a halt. I was _this_ close to falling in a heap again, and it wasn't going to happen again today. I swore to God.

Scott nodded, and I knew it would be soon. They couldn't wait, not with the possibility of nerve damage. "Saturday. He wants you to get used to the idea first, and then Dad needs to take you to Kansas."

Okay. Two days from now. I could deal with that. I definitely could.

I struck a thought that I hadn't noticed before. "Hey, where is Dad?"

Scott looked at me, and his face changed slightly. Still worried and terrified in his _big-brother-I-need-to-fix-it_ way, but there was also a satisfaction suddenly emanating from him that I thought, cautiously, couldn't possibly be all that bad because he was smiling a little, his blue eyes daring me to guess what it was that he was keeping from me.

 _Hey._ I thought. _I'm not one of the kids, remember Scooter? Tracy Two, right here, okay?_ I was a little battered and ill, but I was still here.

"Okay, Scott. Spit it out." His grin grew wider. We'd played this game in particular way too many times to count. "Scott…." My grin was just as bright and slowly gaining wattage.

"Thunderbirds Are Go!"

Dad's catch-cry flew from Scott's lips with a burst of joyful laughter. I could see the relief in his eyes as he spoke the words, and I knew that he was thrilled that soon we wouldn't have to sit and agonise about the worries of the people who were losing their lives, that we would soon be able to rescue the world again.

"Seriously?" I beamed. Scott nodded. "Did he say what changed his mind?"

Scott's grin dampened just a little, and I understood exactly why when he opened his mouth to explain. "You and Alan." He didn't need to go into why my contribution from that morning was pivotal to the argument, but I think we both needed to acknowledge the other one.

"He's really grown up, hasn't he?" I asked in wonder, as I played back Alan's words on the Hood's goal to break us. "He'd never have come out with something like that two months ago."

"Yeah, but remember what happened to get us there though."

Yep. I could never forget that. But if it meant that Alan was going to be happy, even considering the difficulties we would be going through before we got there, it was worth it.

It had been difficult to see the way the kid had withdrawn himself from the rest of us over the past year. It wasn't hard to see why, the rest of us going out and risking our necks; the others more than me for obvious reasons, but it had still been hard to think that he had been slipping away from us, and we hadn't done a damn thing about it. At least something good had come out of this whole mess. Well, that and the detection of my illness at the hospital.

It hit me then, the idea that if not for the Hood, I would most likely still be up on Thunderbird Five without any indication of my illness having returned. Considering exactly how aggressive a cancer relapsed lymphoma was; I knew that I could have very well gotten to a stage four without even realising that anything was wrong with me. I would have continued to think that the sweats I had been having were a technological fault, and it would likely have been much too late for treatment to save me by the time it had been detected.

I supposed that I had to be thankful to him for that one, depressing and nauseating as that idea was.

I shook my head despite the pain it brought to chase away unwelcome thoughts, taking a breath to disperse the memories of being trapped, nightmares, and pending surgeries, and looked at Scott quizzically. "So. Why are you in here anyway? Come to spring me?"

Scott laughed and nodded. "Kyrano says it's time for dinner, and Dr. Kingston has given him a diet plan for you, seeing as letting you go freelance wasn't exactly working the best. I think that you'll enjoy it."

Yay. More reason to try and not throw up.

I snorted to myself at that. Let's try for a little optimism now Johnny…


	22. Forte, Allegro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

As Scott and I made our way out of the infirmary to where the rest of the family and the doctor appeared to be cleaning up after the evening meal, I heard one of the sounds that had been absent from our home from far too long. My little brother was playing the piano.

I knew that there was nothing wrong with hearing the sounds of an instrument that hadn't been touched in over three weeks, but I knew that there definitely was something with how hard Virgil was pummelling the keys. I felt sure that he was bruising his fingertips. The sharp, short and loud progression of notes of an unrecognised piece was certainly doing nothing for my pounding head. I ignored the shots of lightning bouncing around my skull, and Scott's assurance that he would handle Virgil; that I should go and have some food, and ducked from beneath my elder brother's arm to head over to my younger one.

Though Virgil's stiff posture and the thunderclouds that had spread their way over his face signified to anyone who knew him well enough it was a good time to back off, I nevertheless lowered myself tiredly onto the piano seat beside him, and waited.

My brothers had learned from the best when it came from implementing the lessons on 'how to be stubborn', but I —unlike my father and elder brother— had patience enough to outlast anyone. Even Virgil himself, who could sit in front of canvas or with his newest engineering project until it was completed to satisfaction. It could take a very long time and leave a number of dissatisfied people unless someone had the skills to drag him out of it, and not get a face-full of an enraged Tracy as a result.

He could also ignore annoyances with the best of them, feigning deafness until the cows came home, but being the peacemaker and the one that my brothers had come to for a listening ear as we were growing up, I had learned with ease each of my brothers' idiosyncrasies, and how to skirt and circumvent them until I had penetrated their defences. Judging from Virgil's subtle shift on the bench, he had already detected my purpose in sitting quietly and silently next to him. Not that he could really retaliate if he truly wanted to maintain the façade of having not noticed. I was just able to read him too well.

Completely disregarding Big-Brother-Scott standing sentry in the doorway —he was next on the interrogation list if I had any choice in the matter— I spoke quietly into Virgil's ear, knowing that if I was to jolt him out of his concentration too fast, he'd be spitting fire faster than a dragon. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

I had to grin. As much as I didn't want him shouting at me, there was a fine art to inducing a reaction in my brother, especially when it appeared that he had been holding everything in. I knew that Virgil had the sense to see that I was asking a stupid, totally obvious question for a reason. I hated it when they asked me, but who was to say that I couldn't do it in return?

The first of my little brothers was still taking his frustrations out on the keys all the while; the melody he was pounding out never stuttered. Although there was no apparent change of expression on his face, I knew that Virgil was listening to my voice with the greatest attention. Another well-developed Tracy family trait; the ability to multi-task. Even while sick and really not feeling on top of things as the both of us were, the talk I had initiated was inevitably going to continue until its conclusion.

He turned his head slightly to look at me, and despite the period with which we had been sitting so far, Virgil spoke with a calmness that I knew was derived from his instrument, despite the pounding it was taking "Who says that there's anything the matter? I'm fine." The eyes flickered back to his dancing fingers, another step in the routine the two of us had had since we were children. That alone signified that he _wasn't_ fine. He wouldn't be playing in that manner if he was fine and he knew that he was going to be failing miserably with it from the get-go.

"Because," My voice was low, to allow Virgil the illusion that we were the only ones in on the conversation, to pretend that Brother One wasn't listening with all ears, even though he was in all actuality eavesdropping. Jerk. "One; you don't usually bang around the poor piano unless you're peeved, and two; who the hell would be okay if they were told their brother needs surgery, even if it's only minor? Not to mention the fact that I know you haven't been talking much. Scott clearly hasn't gotten to you yet." His shoulders stiffened at that, and I felt a grim satisfaction. Jackpot.

I could see Scott out of the corner of my eye, opening his mouth to add his own two-cent's worth, but I waved frantically at him to nick off from behind Virgil's back. There wasn't anything to be gained by making Virgil feel crowded and antagonising him. The eyes-in-the-back-of-the-head capability was only useable against younger brothers, so I truly had the advantage here in having wordless conversations.

I watched beadily as Scott deflated, and nodded at me, before slipping silently back around the doorjamb, presumably to sit in the corridor that led to the bedrooms until I had managed to draw out what had been worrying Virgil so much, and had spoken to him to talk about it.

Despite being twenty years old, Virgil was still very much just a kid, although a lot of his still-lingering naivety about the world had been shattered from the experiences we had faced with IR. I would always recall when we had just lost Mom. Scott was trying his best, and mostly succeeding at raising Gordon and Alan, and I had taken it upon myself to be the one that Virgil could come to, even though I was ill. He had given Scott lip as any twelve-year-old would do to their parents, and the kids were the ones who he would tease and bait and rib, as any self-respecting older brother would do, but when it had just been the two of us, Virgil knew that he could be the vulnerable little brother that I had been looking out for my entire life. No younger siblings to have a strong upper lip for, no Dad to prove that was a man. Just Virgil. My little brother, and the one who had taught me through experience how to be an elder sibling. True, I had learned from Scott on how to corral the younger ones, how to be responsible, but I was as responsible for Virge as Scott was for me. Each older brother looked out for the younger ones; and the Terrible Two also turned around on occasion and did their own brand of brothering. It was just how we worked. Tracys stood together. It was how we were.

He looked exactly that way now, his angular face and pointed jaw even more emphasised against the shadows that resided beneath his eyes, and accentuated by the peakiness that his chest infection had caused. He appeared to have gotten a lot thinner just recently, losing the roundness that both Alan and Gordon still possessed. His cheekbones in particular had become more prominent, which I found amusing, since he ate so much at meals. A bottomless pit in the literal sense. He looked much younger right now than he had in the longest time, and that understandably worried me. He was pale and tired, and I wondered exactly how much sleep he had been getting. I hoped it was more than I had been. He looked sick, and I didn't like it at all.

"Yeah." He muttered finally in answer to my question, the keys finally getting a reprieve from their punishment. He ran his fingers through his curly, un-styled hair and clenched his fist in the strands at the base of his neck. "It's a combination of things. I guess I'm just… worried about what's going to come next. I've got this weird feeling that something's gonna make things a helluva lot worse soon, and I can't do anything about it…."

I nodded. I'd had that feeling a lot lately. But I knew that there was something more bothering him, and I found myself determined not to let Virgil slip away that easily. It smelled entirely too much like a blanket statement that was designed to make me back off. I could guess that he didn't want me worry, but I would be taking on more stress if I didn't know what was bothering him than I would if I did.

I gave no indication that I was going to drop the subject. He knew me well enough that I could be just as damned stubborn as the rest of them when it came to staying at something until circumstances gave me what I wanted. It drove us all batty when it was another brother doing it, but it was definitely the advantage when you held all the numbers in the equation. He sat there, his eyes on his fingers again as he picked determinedly at his thumbnail, and I just waited for him to find the words for what he wanted to say.

"I just…" He faltered. "Just knowing all the things that could happen with the surgery, and if the meds don't…. and I should've just seen— Argh!" He cried. "I shouldn't even be… This is all messed up!" He screwed his eyes shut.

I could sense his walls beginning to crumble. The thing with Virgil was that once you managed to find the right point to press, it was remarkably easy to get him to talk. He wasn't like Scott, who Dad and I had to practically sit on. A person had to show that they were prepared to let him speak, and then there was no problem. The issue was that you had to actually corner him first. I waited, as he bit around the words to try and get them out.

"I just think, that if we'd not all gone up to the satellite that day, that we'd have all pretty much been fine." His eyes widened a little, and he realised what he'd said, and went to speak, but I decided that I should step in and try and halt the self-recrimination before it had a chance to snowball. He'd meant that we'd have been protected if someone had stayed; Dad or Scott with the military experience at least. It'd have given Kyrano and Brains at least a little bit of extra help. It wasn't saying that the older men weren't capable; it was just that we were family and that we all needed back up if we were to keep going.

"I get what you mean, Virge. You didn't all need to come up to the station; someone should have stayed here, to be able to lock down everything. Brains and Kyrano are both perfectly able, don't get me wrong, but there's a difference between intellectual strength and physical strength, and Brains knows that he's definitely not got the latter."

My brother gave me a weak smile at that. At least someone appreciated my brand of humour. I gauged his bearing, and assured myself that he was definitely taking my understanding on board before continuing.

"The problem is that we're family, and I would have done exactly the same thing if it was one of you guys up there instead of me. I get your reasoning, I really do, but our emotional connection really disadvantaged us. No-one even thought that of the possibility that we could be attacked." Virgil swallowed as he recalled what he had undoubtedly been feeling that day, and I tentatively reached to rub his shoulder, confident that he would accept the comfort. I wasn't disappointed. "I know that I thought it was just a meteor until the bastard jumped the comms after you'd all arrived. I know that you aren't the only one feeling responsible."

I recalled, quite weirdly really, the thoughts that I had been having with the oxygen decrease; that they had been up there, prepared to rescue me without reservations, because they loved me: because I was family. It was comforting, but I knew that I was definitely realising that I was at least partially blaming myself for having put them all in danger. Virgil was feeling responsible because he hadn't realised that everything was a set-up, that he hadn't been there to protect Alan and the other kids, but I think that most of all, he was blaming himself the most because he hadn't realised that I was sick as well. It was quite a mixed up sense of illogical reasoning he was exhibiting, but if I thought about it, none of us were exactly thinking clearly about the entire thing. The others hadn't noticed, I hadn't noticed, and I was the one it was happening to!

Virgil had fallen totally silent as I had been speaking, and I hoped that he had come to the same conclusion that I had. I looked at him closely. I hadn't realised, but while I was talking Virgil had slumped in his seat, and had propped his head in his hand, letting a dull _plink_ emanate from the keys beneath his elbow. I'd replaced my glasses before Scott and I had left the infirmary thankfully, because it meant that I could see clearly, —with a great deal of alarm— that Virgil's face had turned ashen.

"Virge?" He looked up slowly, and I was startled to see how exhausted he was looking. He had been tired, I knew that, and he was ill with the bronchitis, but I couldn't deny that something just wasn't right. My brother was usually much more talkative than this, even when he was under stress, so I was really quite surprised the little things that I was now registering with his behaviour hadn't come to anyone's attention before now. It just showed how out of the ordinary everything still was.

My brother hadn't yet answered my use of his name, and I couldn't deny that I was rather worried.

"Scott!" I called, knowing for certain that he was still lingering around the corner. "Get in here would you?" I watched Virgil carefully, watching as he kneaded his fingertips into his temple, his hands shaking slightly. "Virgil? What's the matter?"

His eyes moved to meet mine, a little unfocused, and his colour wasn't getting better. I was struck again by the sharp angles his cheekbones made. "J-John?" He slurred a little. "I-I don't feel right."

Scott came flying around the corner like Thunderbird One on steroids. "What's going on?" He demanded, slipping to Virgil's side and tipping his chin to meet him eye to eye. "Virge? What's wrong?"

Virgil seemed confused, shaking his head a little to dispel the fuzziness I could see in his eyes. "It's happening again…" he muttered, gripping the piano with white knuckles as he tried to stop his hands shaking.

Scott mirrored my expression of alarm. He squatted down close to our brother's face and looked him straight in the eyes, his own wide and penetrating, looking for something that I too was searching for. Clarity.

"I think, my-my—" To my consternation, Virgil seemed to have lost track of his thoughts. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he spoke again, the stuttering in his voice sending shocks of terror shooting into my heart. "Need…need…"

Scott looked distressed and totally flummoxed at Virgil's lack of sense, and I could see him grasping at a shred of anything that may have assisted him in being able to understand what the hell was going on.

"Did you eat lunch?" I asked him, thinking that perhaps he had been waiting for me and Scott for dinner. It had been a while since the noon meal, and I knew that he had probably been in the gym; it was a part of his daily routine, sick or not. His sugar may have been low-ish after the exertion, or he might have had a headache. I knew how disorienting they were…

He only nodded in that distracted way again, and it really didn't do much for my stress levels. Was it linked to his odd behaviour? I had no idea. I'd spent way too much time sleeping to have accurately observed him, and I hated myself for the negligence I had shown.

Virgil seemed to have gained somewhat of a sense of meaning, and his hand had scrabbled to his pocket to pull out a toffee covered in foil. He had a look on his face that seemed to be half terror, half recognition of something, and I found myself thinking what Scott spoke aloud.

"Virgil? What the hell is going on?"

Little brother was struggling to unwrap the little sweet in clumsy fingers, but he somehow managed to snag the foil on one of his fingernails, tearing the wrapper off and sliding it beneath his tongue. I was staring at him with a mixture of befuddlement and half-remembered memory. I recalled that there'd been a hypoglycaemic teenage girl a number of months ago. I'd been on the ground on one of the rescues that had occurred while Gordon was up on 'Five, and she had gone into a low blood sugar episode in the basket up to 'Two after being lifted from a cave in Australia. I had helped her administer a glucagon shot from her kit, and she had righted almost completely within a few minutes, though we had deposited her at the nearest hospital regardless.

Virgil was exhibiting similar symptoms. What was worse was that he had recognised it, and was treating himself. I had no idea of what in the jehospat the kid had been doing, and looking at the angry, perturbed and terrified look on Scott's face, he didn't either.

 _What the hell?_ I thought. _He's not…_

My brother's stilted words registered. _It's happening again…._

Scott seemed to have reached a similar conclusion.

"Virgil. Have you been having low blood sugar? Why haven't you asked anyone to check you out?"

Virgil was still looking off, but I could see that his colour was returning, at least a little. His hands shook as he settled them into his lap. He licked dry lips, and then looked up at us, still a little bemused, but looking a bit more with it than he had before. There was also a pained, guilty look on his face that I really didn't like.

"Virgil?"


	23. Rush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

Why did it always seem that my brothers felt the need to hide everything from everyone? I could understand the need for privacy, definitely. Eleven people living in one house on one small island really didn't give a person much leeway when they wanted to keep information secret, but this was just ridiculous!

We had all done it at one time or another. Scott had with his bout with mono; myself with the symptoms from my first battle. Gordon had walked around on a fractured ankle for over four days because he had thought it was a sprain. He'd ended up screaming in agony on the floor because he'd then slipped down the stairs and compounded it. I really shouldn't have been surprised that Virgil had concealed what he had from the rest of us. There had definitely been too many things going on, and obviously thinking he could handle it, he hadn't said anything.

Virgil looked at the two of us guiltily; his face still alarmingly pale and drawn, and lowered his hazel eyes to his lap again, before speaking in a voice that was still slurred and slightly unsteady.

"My sugar was really high… I was getting leg cramps and I've been having really bad mood swings. I know that we've all been tired, but I really just couldn't sleep, even when I wanted to, and I've been drinking a hell of a lot more water than usual." He gulped a little, and he seemed to be steeling himself to actually voice what he needed to say. His voice dropped into a monotone, as though the words tasted bitter and he wanted nothing more than to spit them out and wash his mouth of them. "I've been using the insulin from the stocks as a precaution, just to balance my sugar out, but as you can see, it drops…" He trailed off, sensing trouble.

There was silence; complete and total silence. I was speechless because I would have hardly expected it of my sensible little brother. I just stared at him in shock, and I was also rather surprised that Scott hadn't yet blown a gasket, but seeing the look on Virgil's face as I turned to face our older brother, it really wasn't difficult to see why.

Scott seemed to have gone rather a nasty shade of white. His ears were reddening; a true sign of his feelings, as if the straight line of his mouth wasn't enough to indicate his astronomical disbelief. He gaped soundlessly, mouthing words that he was in too much shock to actually push past his lips.

Working to swallow the lump that had risen in my throat, I couldn't help the hot, incredulous anger that exploded out of me as Virgil's words sank into my brain.

I beat Scott to the punch as the implications of my brother's actions were truly absorbed. "What do you mean; you've been using the insulin? How stupid are you Virgil? You should have come to someone as soon as you even suspected something was wrong! You're insane! What if something had happened? Insulin shock, hyperglycaemia, ketoacidosis? You don't even know that if anything is wrong kid! You're jumping to fricking goddamn conclusions!"

I heard footsteps from the direction of the kitchen, but I couldn't have cared less who heard. I saw Dad move into the room from my peripheral, consternation and concern warring in his flashing eyes, and I watched as my younger brother shifted in his seat. I didn't care. He didn't get to hide this one.

The terms were ones we all knew well, not only as a result of the first-aid training we had all taken for IR in preparation for medical situations, but also because Grandpa Grant had been diabetic. Being an autoimmune, genetic disease, there was a certain chance that any one of us might someday develop the condition, but the fact that Virgil had gone behind everyone's back and commenced treatment —something that no medic should do— without medical consolidation, was a mark of how crappy and jacked-up this entire month had been.

Dad had obviously heard the last part of my rant, because he didn't seem to be taking the idea much better than Scott. However, unlike said brother, who was still staring at Virgil in rather worrying a silence, Dad went nuclear; echoing everything that I had just said, albeit in a much more panicked and incoherent manner. I wondered just how much more he was going to be able to take.

Virgil just sat quietly, not offering to defend himself at all. I was still fuming at him, and was perfectly happy to pass the reins to our father for a minute so I could work exactly why I and everyone else on this island were more important than my brother looking after himself.

Dad had by no means run out of steam, but he changed tack, taking a large breath that he let out in a noisy, explosive gust. His voice was quiet and deadly, laced with concern and suppressed worry. "Stand up and lift your shirt."

Still a little unsteady, my little brother moved out from behind the piano bench and hesitantly lifted up the thick sweater I had seen him in the other day.

I gasped involuntarily. Virgil was almost as skinny as I was, and that was saying something, especially on his shorter frame. I could see the outlines of his lower ribs, and his jeans were bunched up with the belt tightened as much as it could be fastened. His shirt was much too large for him, and I felt a pang of guilt in my chest as I wondered how I had missed how much weight he had lost.

Scott had managed to find his voice as he choked out the question that I was definitely asking. "How long has this been going on?"

Dad's voice was flat. "I'd rather like to know that as well Son."

Virgil was weary and pale as he tucked his shirt back in, and I shuddered as I came to realised exactly how well the fabric hid the skin and bone beneath. I never would have noticed if not for his little episode, and I hated myself.

He took a breath, and I could see that it was with a lot of trepidation at exacerbating the current situation that he hesitated. "Around a week and a half. I was going to ask if I could come to the mainland tomorrow with you and John. I was going to get checked out, I swear. I was just managing what I could with the evidence I already had." He was trying to rationalise his idiocy, but I could tell that Dad wasn't buying it. Neither was I or Scott, but we exchanged glances, agreeing that this was our father's situation to approach in his way.

"But why didn't you say anything?" Dad's voice was taut with worry, stress and mingled frustration, and I couldn't blame him as it appeared that he was just about ready to tear his hair out. "What possessed you? You know that I'd take you to Dr Callahan's in a heartbeat. Why didn't you tell me?"  
I knew that our father was taking it personally, the idea that his son didn't think his health was important enough to tell his own dad that he was ill. A person didn't lose that much weight in a week without reason.

Virgil seemed to realise that Dad already knew the answer to the questions that he was asking, and merely rubbed his forehead, before nodding as he was ordered to pack a bag immediately.

Dad said the same thing to me, and that I needed to alert Dr Kingston of the change in circumstances. I knew that we needed to find out what was wrong with Virgil immediately. We needed to rule out the possibility that my brother might have the disease that took Grandpa's life.

Scott spoke up for merely the second time since Virgil had revealed his actions. He was stiff-shouldered and poised for a fight, but I knew that Dad was certainly not in shape for a conflict of opinions right now.

Luckily, I knew what my brother wanted.

"Scott." I spoke quietly. "We need someone here for Al and Gords. I know you want to be there for us, but the kids need you more."

Scott opened his mouth, and I went to head him off before he built up his head of steam, but I was cut off by Dad.

"No. Everyone is coming." He shook his head for emphasis. "This changes things. I'm not having two sick sons and another three fretting themselves to illness back here. Go get your brothers and tell them to hurry up about it!"

He strode away, and I could tell by my father's bearing, that he was close to breaking.

###

Four hours and the fastest speeds of Tracy One later, and we were in Auckland, New Zealand. Despite it being nearly eleven o'clock at night local time, our brothers were definitely wide awake as Dad, Virgil and I set off for the nearest hospital from the hotel.

It wasn't a long wait. While Scott had concentrated on flying us out, Dad had been making calls to Auckland City Hospital, saying that it was of the utmost importance that Virgil was seen immediately. I wouldn't have gone along myself —despite the brevity of the wait for Virgil's call— had my brother not said, in all his little brother vulnerability and terror, 'You've gone through this before. I need you.' He had said it quietly enough, but I knew that from his lack of protest at staying behind, that Scott had both heard, and understood completely.

My father and I weren't allowed in the examination room as Virgil was being tested, so the two of us sat anxiously in the waiting area for the moment of truth. I was tired after the flight, sick to my stomach because of the plane ride, and just tired of hospitals full-stop. I had on my thickest jacket to ward against the air-conditioned chill, and my head was still throbbing mercilessly despite the meds I had taken in the car to alleviate it. I had a paper mask to protect me against any airborne germs that I might be exposed to. The rustling sound it was making every time I moved was a little irritating, but that was the least of my worries, as I stared at the double doors that hid my brother from me in the examination area, as though the intensity of my gaze would allow me to both see and hear what was going on inside.

The place was deserted but for the two of us; the only activity was the various announcements over the PA summoning nurses and doctors to different places. My father had barely said a word since we had arrived, and I knew that he struggling. He had his head in his hands as he sat beside me in the row of uncomfortable plastic chairs along the wall, and seemed completely absorbed with staring at the linoleum floor beneath his sneakered feet. I couldn't really blame him.

I figured that we were both thinking the same thing. How could we not have noticed? Virgil was a superb poker player; completely able to fool you that nothing was going on, and then make you think something else entirely as a distraction. Had he not had his episode earlier in the evening, I wouldn't have known that anything was wrong with him. That was the trouble with us Tracys; we were always concerned about what others might think of us; how each sibling usually reacted to stress and events like this. We'd all bottle up and suppress things until we either wore ourselves down or totally blew a gasket over the tiniest thing.

Virgil had not spoken a single word other than his request that I accompany him and Dad, and I couldn't help but worry that if the indicated situation came to pass, he wouldn't be able to cope. If we took the Hood's attack and my illness out of the equation, then maybe I would have had a more confident expectation for my brother's reaction, but as it was, with all the additional stress, the possible reality of diabetes really wasn't going to lead to a positive result.

It had a good hour since my brother had vanished into the bowels of the ER, and my father had already managed to consume three cups of coffee from the machine in the corner. I was feeling too nauseous for juice or tea, and had merely been sipping on the bottle of water my father had bought from the vending machine further down the hall. With everything else that had gone on today, I was drowsing rather uncomfortably; my body deciding that now was a good time to catch up on sleep, despite the way I had napped the entire way over the Pacific.

It was no wonder I was so startled when the doors were suddenly flung wide. My eyes flew open as my little brother walked slowly through them; a slip of paper clutched in his fist that I knew contained his fate. Dad and I both lifted our eyes to Virgil's face, and I couldn't help but have a bit of hope as I met my brother's gaze. Too bad it was shattered as soon as he opened his mouth.

His voice was dull and soft as he spoke; strong with mingled shock and terror, and I immediately rose to take him into my half embrace. "I'm being admitted." He said hoarsely, looking over my shoulder at our father, who was standing with his hands balled into fists as he tried to keep his composure. "I've got Type 1, and my glucose is through the roof now." He continued mechanically, all emotion leaving his voice. Now that he'd begun to talk he seemed to be unwilling to stop until he had expelled all of the undesired information. "I've also got a large count of ketones in my urine now, so we all know that that means that my pancreas is fucked."

He choked a little on that, and he began to tremble in my grasp as the news sank in for all three of us.

My little brother was diabetic. There would be time to muddle out causes and try to rationalise later, but right now there was only time to try and comfort Virgil and to help him face the fact that, like me, he was battling something that could ultimately take his life. It was going to be near impossible.

It wasn't fair. We protected the world from itself, and yet all Fate was doing to repay us was striking us down, one by one. I didn't care at this point about myself. I only cared that Virgil's life had changed, and there was nothing we could do to fix it. He was sobbing against my chest as Dad stepped forward to pull us both into his, and I felt myself wishing that it was me, not Virgil that was going to have to go through it. I wanted and needed to howl at the sky the injustice of the things we had been hit with over the past few weeks, but I needed to be the older brother in Scott's absence. Virgil had asked me to be here for him, and I was damn well going to do it, personal vendetta or not.


	24. Contemplation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

My father was forceful in his refusal to let me stay at the hospital longer than it took for Scott to arrive. He had called my older brother with the request he bring some clothes and other essentials up for Virgil. I must say that I protested, quite adamantly over the idea of having to leave my little brother, but Dad was nothing if not experienced with getting his sons to do what he thought was best for them.

He had allowed me to sit with him while the doctor attending to my younger brother informed us of how exactly Virgil was doing.

He was in a bit of a strange situation for a newly diagnosed diabetic. Despite his episode of hypoglycaemia a few hours before, there was a terribly large number of ketones (clusters of enzymes indicative of high acidic levels) in his urine, which had sent him into a state of dehydration, as well as the blood glucose reading that had sent him into the high 400's. It was way above the ideal level for a person's metabolism, even after having dinner before we left home, but thankfully, it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been.

I found that I was ignoring the fuzz of clouded fatigue in my brain; and was completely disregarding the pounding headache that was a result of that fatigue, but I couldn't pretend there wasn't nausea roiling heavily in my stomach, and the tugging from my PICC line. Tomorrow (today?) was to be the last day I was on the first cycle of my chemo meds, but it seemed that my body still hadn't learned that the fluids were trying to help rather than hurt.

I wondered absently, how I was going to have the last part of my dose, considering that I was so far from both my doctor and the clinic in Kansas, but I wasn't as collected as I needed to be to puzzle it out much further than fuzzy comprehension. Thinking back to when I had hurriedly informed him that we were headed here, I knew that Dr. Kingston was probably miffed that I was leaving; taking myself out of his direct line of sight when I was so diminished. He had detached my IV bags, and had given me the sheet that contained the list of medications that I would need for however long it was, but considering that I didn't know what was wrong at my brother at the time, I considered that a minor detail and had quite frankly, disregarded it.

Sadly, my father hadn't thought the same.

His thoughts had clearly not been as ordered as usual, due to the obvious stress Virgil's situation had placed on us, but I myself was surprised at the fact that none of us had properly realised that I was supposed to be heading to Kansas for my node removal the day after next (or the next afternoon, considering how late it was at that moment.) As soon as Virgil had been settled into a room and hooked up to fluids and electrolytes for the dehydration his high sugar levels had caused, I grudgingly let myself be shunted out to the car by my elder brother, my father's orders to get a good night's sleep ringing in my ears.

The thing that was haunting me the most was exactly how tiny my younger brother had appeared, swamped in the mass of white sheets and blankets that my father had pulled tenderly over him as soon as the orderly had stepped out of the room. It was a show of how much the past few hours had taken out of the kid, as Virgil slipped into sleep as soon as his head had touched the pillow. It was quite in spite of the IV lines snaking from the back of his left hand, and the fever that still stained his otherwise pale face. The abundance of freckles flecked over the bridge of his nose —a unique feature that only Gordon and he shared from Mom— that were usually hidden beneath his tan, were starkly visible beneath his pallor. It was that alone that had made me so reluctant to leave him.

It could be indirectly linked to stress; the development of diabetes, and just the fact that Virgil had the chest infection on top of everything else was going to make it even harder for my immediate younger brother to learn to control this new issue.

However, as soon as I was seated in the car, which was, you know; much more comfortable than hard plastic seats, I instantly forgot about any of that (though I knew that whatever-it-was would come back later), as I found myself drowsing against the headrest, even as my brain noted that there wasn't all that much time left to pass until I'd have to wake up again. My body didn't appear to care less about it. I just embraced it, and closed my gritty eyes against the glare of the lights of the parking garage.

##

It was the rumbling of the van's engine spluttering to a halt that roused me; the sudden silence, and Scott's warm hand on my shoulder letting me know that I needed to move if I wanted to make it into bed with any sort of haste. I was a little disgruntled to realise that once again my father was right, but I pushed that thought away with the least amount of concern. All I wanted was to wake up and discover that all of this was just a very bad dream.

I think that Scott must have had an interesting time as he prodded and nudged and guided me into the lift. I must have been more tired than I'd thought, because I seemed to have lost a fair chunk of time between leaning against the wall in the moving metal hunk, and crawling into the bed that my brother aimed me at.

I assumed that my youngest brothers were already in bed, if I was to go by the lack of noise from the rest of the rooms in the suite that my father had rented, but other than registering that small fact, I thought of nothing else before consciousness slipped away from my unresisting grip.

##

I was surprised that I woke as early as I did the next morning, especially considering how wiped I had been the night before, but it was really a no-brainer when you noted the ghost who had inhabited my room until a few days ago had made his way back to my bed.

The just-after-dawn light shone cheerily from the window beyond the double bed, the curtains no match in the slightest for the determined sun as it streamed its way through the insufficient fabric. I hadn't noticed anything besides the placement of the loo before I had crashed, not even waiting to change out of my sweats and into pyjamas. Now that I was somewhat awake though, there was nothing stopping me from appreciating the deep mahogany that ringed the doors and the skirting boards, along with the burgundy carpet covering the floor, accentuating the white walls with a benevolent glow. It had a soothing effect on me. Especially considering what had happened last night.

Speaking of younger brothers…

Tracy Six was sprawled out next to me, much in a mirror of three days ago, before I had spent my nights in the infirmary. His mouth was open, his blonde curls mussed, and it struck me suddenly, just how much younger than fourteen Alan looked when his face was relaxed and not twisted into a pout. I couldn't see his eyes, for obvious reasons, but I knew that they would be even just a little dimmed because of the things that were happening to our family. I knew that what was going on behind those blue eyes —even as my brother seemed to be dreaming peacefully— was a conflicted tangle of emotions that none of us had the capacity to deal with, especially with the stress of the present events.

Stress. That was a big factor, in everything that had occurred lately. A huge part of how we had all been coping, both as a family and as a business after everything that had transpired was based on stress. The snappishness, the smothering, the jokes, the nightmares… It was like rust on a huge chain of which the links were breaking slowly apart, taking our entire family down with it; though the patterns of comfort and love remained just as deeply etched beneath, burrowed into the basic make-up of the whole.

The added worries of my illness certainly weren't helping, and the fact that Virgil had now been diagnosed with a disease whose ability to manage entirely rode on how much stress the individual was under, was going to make everything just that little bit harder.

I knew that Dad was most likely going to be blaming himself for Virgil's diagnosis; wondering if it was something that he had done to cause his son to develop it, but I knew that Virgil wouldn't be blaming him. He was a practical man, my younger brother, and I knew that only the rational, sensible conclusions would have been allowed to equate with how he was going to cope with learning about his new illness.

I'd clearly been watching Alan sleep for a while, because not only had the light inched its way across the room, but my little brother's eyes were shifting rapidly beneath the lids; his breaths hitching as he rose out of the comforting blankets of sleep. Clearly he felt my eyes on him.

Azure blue, sleep dulled and tired gazed into mine with fuzzy curiosity. He seemed to be considering the fact that I was staring right at him, before his eyes widened a little and he sprang into a sitting position so fast that the mattress creaked.

"Alan?" I frowned, wondering what was going to happen now. Surely he still hadn't realised that I knew he'd been seeking my comfort?

"Uh." Incoherence seemed to be our family's early morning specialty at the moment….

I took advantage of my brother's temporary speechlessness and said to him seriously, "I don't mind you know. You being here with me."

He lost a little of his befuddlement, only to gape at my rather clear statement.

"I rather like it." I continued conversationally, leaning up on my good arm to tuck my hand beneath my left ear, ignoring the pull the detached PICC presented. "The fact that you feel safe with me, I mean. I don't get to spend time with you all that much, but I know that you're more of a hugger than a talker."

God, I knew that I was rambling, but I was still rather far from awake, and if it kept the kid from withdrawing as fast as a snake from a hole then who was I to care how I sounded? I knew for a fact that no one else would have.

Alan seemed to have regained his tongue. He frowned a little, before nodding to my statement, before a look of disconsolation crept over his face and into his eyes. Like Gordon, everything my brother felt shone in his eyes. The words that came whispered from his lips proved me right.

"Will Virgil be alright?" Four little words, but my heart shattered.

I always forgot how young Alan still was. Really, fourteen was still so innocent, naïve, and the kid was still both of those things; even despite the atrocious experiences that he had gone through since the beginning of spring break. The four short words that Alan spoke told me just how much all this was affecting him, and with me going into surgery later in the afternoon (once I actually got to Kansas, that was…) there was no way that he was coping, even recalling the chat that my youngest and eldest brothers had had the other day.

I grabbed him suddenly and held him tight to my chest, just long enough to whisper in his ear, that yes, Virgil was really ill at the moment, but no; medicine was advancing everyday, and there was no reason why our brother wouldn't be just fine.

I released him just as fast, but I could already see the evidence of the reassurance that had sparked in his eyes, and I thanked God that he still believed in his big brother enough to not doubt a word I said, even when things probably pretty well rejected it. There was every possibility that my first little brother would die the same way Grandpa had, with any other number of terrifying handicaps to pull him down, but we would probably have nothing if we didn't have hope.


	25. Reasoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

My little brother was still terrified out of his mind, but my words to him had apparently pushed it down enough that he was able to hitch a modicum of courage onto his face to be able to face the day. I suspected that until he was able to have a visual on Virgil, Alan would still be fretting about our brother's future. He smiled tremulously at me for a second, before bouncing off the bed to sprint into the hall, where I could hear the distinctive sounds of Gordon's heavy-footed jog on the floorboards of the suite, probably on his way back from the hotel pool. I wondered absently what he'd used as swimming trunks. He'd probably just grabbed a pair of his underwear, if I knew my younger brother. But saying that, he'd probably grabbed his swimmers as a matter of habit when he'd thrown his bag together before we'd left home.

The thought made me grin, as I heard a short ruckus from my two youngest brothers; one clearly deciding that they wanted to tackle the other. There were incoherent shouts, scraping, a muffled thump, and a curse that sounded as though it was Alan being thumped. I figured that Gordon had probably used his trademark move of a jab to the ribs to keep our baby brother 'in line'. Judging from the yelp that then sounded from the redhead, I gathered that Alan had then managed to give a sharp yank on Gordon's hair. I had to chuckle to myself at how well I knew my brothers' war tactics.

I stretched a little to erase the kinks my sleeping body had worked into the sinew and muscles, only to grit my teeth as a lance of hot pain arched from the small of my back to the soles of my feet. I breathed heavily through the unexpected flare-up. I must have slept awkwardly for the almost-unnoticeable injury to be arcing up again.

I heaved a sigh. I ached all over from the salvage therapy; the meds were affecting my muscles and bones themselves, and the savage headaches were becoming much more than a nuisance. I was sure that my cracked, dry lips were going to be forming ulcers soon, despite the softened foods I was eating, and the Vaseline that I was applying to soothe them. The last thing I possibly needed was for another issue to make an appearance.

I got up slowly, wincing at the dull throb that was radiating out from the entire area above my tailbone and across the back of my pelvis, before shuffling off towards the bathroom to shower and dress.

##

The fatigue hit me like a ton of bricks.

I guess I should really have expected it, after the flight yesterday and the time I'd spent waiting at the hospital for Virgil, but I really was taken by surprise by the way I was being dragged down by the weight of overly heavy limbs and an aching head. I had taken some Tylenol for both the head and back aches, but they'd just helped my body along in its decision to let me collapse in a heap.

I'd managed my breakfast of oatmeal and weak cocoa with a minimum of fuss, and had then quietly retreated to the couch while my younger brothers worked together to clean up the table for the room service personnel to fetch later. Scott had left before I had emerged from the shower, and the three of us remaining brothers had sat at the table alone.

I was half-listening to their conversation, not enough to absorb the exact words, but enough to notice when a deeper, quieter voice suddenly enquired about something concerning food. I opened my eyes wearily to see Dad standing in the small kitchenette, while Gordon removed a Tupperware container from the microwave, passing it to Dad before disappearing into his assigned room to shower. I put the pieces together then, when I realised that Scott had set off with the clear (and obviously forceful) intention of sending Dad back here to sleep and eat.

Dad, with his in-built Father-sees-all radar, looked up as soon as I focused on him, my tired eyes having no trouble seeing the bags settled beneath his.

"How's Virgil?" I asked, before he could ask as to my own state of being. I'd address that in a minute, once I knew exactly how my brother was.

"Exhausted. Sick. Grumpy as all-heaven heck." Dad muttered, snagging a spoon from the tray and plopping on the couch next to my feet; reclined as I was with a pillow beneath my head and the quilt from the bed I had slept in wrapped around me. He chewed for a minute, before swallowing and giving the oatmeal that was in the bowl a quick stir to mix in the sugar that he had sprinkled on it.

"They've managed to lower his sugar to around the three-eighty mark, which they tell me is an improvement, but he's still quite ill, and they want to keep him in for at least three days to make sure it's totally under control, and to teach him how to deal with managing it properly."

I nodded, waiting for him to finish his second mouthful before speaking. Alan took the armchair next to me, quiet as I asked, "He knows a bit about it from the med training, but does that affect how long he needs to stay in? He'll have to learn it from a different perspective, wouldn't he?"

Dad nodded. "He has to learn on the American scale, rather then the New Zealand/Australian meter they'll have here. It'll be easier once we've found an endocrinologist closer to home. Not to mention that we'll be getting all his supplies from the drugstore where we get Gordon's asthma meds from. It's just easier. They've got an American doctor on the horn for him at the moment; she's going to be teaching him how to do his readings over the vid-phone, but then we can take him back to Kansas and hopefully get him worked out properly there."

Dad rubbed his eyes wearily, the spoon clanging against the bowl as it dropped from his slack grip. "You boys are going to be the death of me someday…"

"C'mon Dad!" Alan braced his hand on Dad's shoulder, tightening his fingers in support, even as he grinned shakily. I loved him for the bravado in his voice. "You know that it's our job as kids to drive you older folks insane!"

Our father peered beadily up at his youngest son, muttering something along the lines of 'Give me cheek why don't you….', but then frowned a little as he looked confusedly at Alan's grin.

Alan looked a little perturbed at the scrutiny, but it quickly melted into sheepishness and something a little darker, as Dad asked, warily, where his retainer was.

I had to squint to hear what my brother's response was —which was strange as I was actually using my ears— but I felt a chill run down my spine as he explained that Fermat had needed metal to solder the connection for the satellite relay station at home…

Dad's face dropped into shadow faster than a tropical storm. Alan gulped a little, but quickly recovered as our father reassured him that it wasn't his fault.

"We'll just have to put you in for an orthodontist appointment soon, won't we?" He ruffled Alan's hair, much to the kid's apparent disgust. "Those front teeth won't stay straight unless we've got the tools for it."

Alan smiled tentatively at Dad's attempt at joviality, and nodded as his gaze turned on me.

"I'm just tired Dad." I sighed, running my fingers reflexively over the cap that covered my now mostly-bald head, trying to stave off the concerned inquisition before it started. "My back is sore, and I've got a bit of a headache. Nothing major." It was, but not on the same level as the rest of my situation. At least I wasn't puking. At that moment anyway.

"I need to sleep, and so do you, John; but first I'd better tell you what I've decided we need to do. You're supposed to be having your surgery late tomorrow afternoon." I nodded. That was the obvious, seeing as my arm was apparently growing where it wasn't supposed to. "It's completely impractical that you'll be able to get there and be rested enough to have it done today, so I've spoken to Doctor Kingston, and he's said that they're perfectly able to reschedule the procedure until the next evening instead. It'll give Scott time to fly you and Gordon out to Topeka, and for you to be able to get some adequate sleep and to be properly briefed on the surgery." Dad looked at me closely through bloodshot eyes, seemingly reading my feelings with the slightest of glances.

I was immediately disgruntled, a mix of mulishness and annoyance at the idea of moving away from my ill brother overriding everything for that moment, but it was quickly quashed by another thought.

We were going to be scattered. Several thousand miles were going to be separating me from my father and two of my younger brothers as I underwent my first surgery. I was terrified. From what my father was implying, Scott and Gordon would both be there for me, but I really, really wanted my father there as well. It was frightening, and I hated myself for being frightened.

I was afraid of what other news the surgery could unearth, what other curveballs would be thrown up into my face. I also hated with a passion the flash of jealousy that I felt over Virgil getting to have Dad with him, hated it that I was being so damn selfish as to want to take my Dad away from a brother who needed him more than me. I bit my tongue, determined not to say anything of the sort. Never in my life had I disliked myself as much as I did right then.

"John" My father's fingers found my jaw, and I flinched away a little from the coldness of the callused skin. "I'll only be a phone call away. I want to be there as much as you want me to be, but I need to be here as well to understand how to help Virgil. If I could split myself into two, I would; you know it, but the fact is that I can't, and I need to be here."

I knew. I knew that what he was saying was true; that he needed to learn how to help my little brother, but it still hurt, and I despised myself for it. I could see the torment in my father's eyes as he spoke to me, and I could clearly see his reasoning, but it still made me mad. I wasn't mad at my father or at Virgil for being ill. No. I was angry at fate and at God for putting all of this on us.

We had been taught to have faith, and that things happened and were given to us to bear for a reason, but I couldn't help but rage internally about the complete unfairness of the hand we'd been dealt. It sucked, it reeked. There were many different words I could use to describe the sheer hatred I had of the situation we had been placed with. There was no use complaining though; was there really anyone to help at all? God surely wasn't listening. If God were listening, he would have answered my prayers from the night before that Virgil wouldn't be diagnosed with diabetes. He would have listened when I hoped to him that I wouldn't relapse. Fat lot of good that had done me!

I looked into my Dad's worried gaze, my misgivings about the situation hidden for the time being, and just nodded. I would be brave, and do this without him, but I would hate every minute of it, and the fact that I wasn't going to be able to be here for Virgil either.

Virgil was in much the same boat that I was. He and Scott shared such a strong bond. Like Gordon and Alan, they were like twins born four years apart. He would want all his brothers as well as our father with him, just like I wanted the reverse, but for the time being it was just something that neither of us could have.

Dad patted me reassuringly on the shoulder, and softly told me to get some sleep. I nodded again, not able to fight the overwhelming tiredness to fret over the problem any further. I felt his lips ghost over my forehead as my eyes slipped closed, and I knew that he was just as torn over the situation as the rest of us.

I was suddenly filled with fuzzy warmth, as I heard my father's voice tell me softly that he loved me.

It was something that was hardly said in our household. Each person knew that they were loved unconditionally but in a house full of males, there really wasn't any room for affection other than the gruff rufflings of hair, and the occasional, heartfelt bear-hug.

I slipped into sleep, the fog rolling in from the corners of my mind; but I was sure I mumbled something back to him along the same lines. I hoped I did anyway. I knew that I would sleep well because of that simple exchange; it was just how I would feel when I woke up that was the question.


	26. Muzz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

I slept most of the way back to Kansas. We'd spent an hour or so at the hospital with Virgil after Scott had returned with the van, before Dad had driven the three of us to the airport where we'd stored Tracy One. I'd wondered, briefly, how in heck the others were going to get back to the island when Virgil was released, but then the pieces clicked and I realised that we did have other planes and pilots at home that were going to be able to pick them up.

We'd left the hotel not long after my father had roused me, and it was only the motivation of going to see Virgil and how he was doing that actually gave me the willpower to breathe heavily through the stabbing ache that had formed right in the centre of my back as I stood up. I'd taken some ibuprofen, since it'd been four hours since my last lot of pain meds, but it barely took the edge off of any of my sorest areas.

Dad'd refused point-blank to let me leave the hotel without eating something, so I'd choked down some pumpkin soup and a small dinner-roll as a mid-morning snack, but I could tell that he was still dissatisfied with how much food I was actually taking in and keeping in my stomach. The headache I'd had all morning truly wasn't helping matters.

When we'd got back to Auckland Hospital, it was to my disappointment and worry that Virgil wasn't looking as well as I'd convinced myself and Alan that he was.

When we'd walked in, —me slowly and stiffly against my sore body— he'd just woken from a nap, and I was shocked to realise how small the amount of improvement was.

The upheaval from his sugars alone had been enough to tire him out for starters, but the chest infection wasn't really doing him many favours at all. His voice was hoarse from coughing, and they were apparently watching him to make sure that he wouldn't need to be put on oxygen for it; it had affected him so badly. I was glad that the mask I was wearing to protect me from airborne germs helped to conceal the shock I felt at the sight of him.

He had looked tired and pale; stripes of bright pink indicative of both his still-high levels and the fever painting his bony cheeks, and he had seemed to be fighting off a headache, if I was right about the crinkling at the corners of his eyes. Needled tubes snaked from the back of his hand, and I had avoided looking at them longer than a second for fear of losing the food I'd just eaten.

To add to that, he'd been placed on a course of intravenous antibiotics to help clear the mucus out, concurrently with the insulin that they'd started him on overnight to regulate his levels. Apparently for a diabetic, it was much harder to recover from illnesses and infections than it was for those without the disease. I recalled how long it had taken him to get over colds in the past six months or so, and I realised that that could very well have been one of the early warning signs.

He had smiled worriedly at me and wished me luck for my surgery, and quite seriously promised to kick my butt if I went and did anything stupid while he wasn't around to keep an eye on me. I had raised my eyebrows in my very best 'Who, me?' expression, and had tried not to show how much I was aching. But I could tell that he could somehow see right through my façade. He didn't mention anything specifically though; for which I was grateful.

##

I knew that there was something off when I awoke.

The rumbling of the plane's engines had stopped, I realised, and there was a whispered voice cajoling me to wake up. The thing was, volleys of gunshots seemed to be the result of that, and it bloody hurt so badly that it was just indescribable! I couldn't work out the person's words through my own cry of pain, as the state of my being tore away any remainder of sleep; not even letting me draw a proper breath before I was hit by the onslaught.

The ache that had been thrumming behind my eyes throughout the trip with my Dad and brothers to the hospital, and right up until I had made myself comfortable in Tracy One's passenger hold was nothing compared to now. It was like comparing the tiny hill in the back yard of the house in Kansas to Mount Everest, or a staple to one of Thunderbird Two's hydraulic supports.

Serrated knives edged with shards of glass jabbed into my brain would've been more comfortable. There was a thick, metal tang coalescing in my mouth, and that alerted me instantly as to what was happening. The sparks of light glancing across the insides of my eyelids set off the pulsing, sick feeling in my gut that I classed as a fifteen out of ten on the 'John Tracy Perfectly and Utterly Unwelcome Scale', and I ached. I was hot, I was in pain, and I was completely fed up with all of it.

Despite the position of relative comfort I had found as I drifted off in the reclined seat, my back was aching; the spikes of pain radiating out from it sending cringing whimpers and sobs shaking through my entire body. Just the fingers rubbing softly on my shoulder infinitely intensified the agony permeating my entire being, and I wanted to crawl immediately back into the numb, dark place in which I had previously resided, _right now_.

Now that my brain was aware of all that discomfort; it naturally wanted to rebel. I didn't want to crack my eyes open in the slightest, but I was forced to do just that as my gut decided that now was a great time to reject all that was within. I gulped, dragging myself sideways, even as I clenched my teeth together and set my will to _not_ vomit.

 _There's a reason why you're waking me up, Scooter._ I found myself thinking, as I struggled to stop the goddamn state of _ouch_ that the dulled lights that had sent my head spinning into. _What the hell is it so I can go back to sleep…_ I couldn't for the life of me remember what the reason _was_. I was just in too much pain, and Scott talking to me seriously wasn't helping. I didn't even know for sure that it was Scott, but it was a reasonable estimate that it was, because Dad wasn't here right now, and my brother's behaviour was utterly predictable.

I squinted my eyes open to try again to focus on the person in front of me; the lights still hurt like hell, but I was expecting it, so it was a little easier to bear. "Scott?" I croaked; my voice gummy from sleep and fatigue. It was muffled further by the mask across my nose and mouth, but I felt cool air touch them as it was removed, the opening of a bottle held against my lips.

I swallowed the water blindly, having closed my eyes again once I'd established that it was indeed Scott, but then I whimpered a little as it was removed. I had to struggle a little bit to focus on what he was saying, but then I felt my hand lifted and a number of small pellets were placed in it.

I got the word 'pills', and sighed in huge relief as I realised that my brother had known exactly what was wrong without me having to verbalise it. I was still muzzy enough to not have control of my finer motor functions, so I wasn't surprised when my brother's hand guided the pills to my mouth. I swallowed more out of habit than conscious intention, and just figured that because it would take a while for the medications to begin to work their magic, I closed my eyes and willingly slipped into sleep. It was a welcome reprieve from the hot pain that was my reality.

##

The meds had barely touched the monster in my head at all, even after sleeping for another undetermined amount of time. It had receded enough that it wasn't so blinding, and that I could actually move, and think, but it was still bad enough that light was searingly painful. I opened my eyes for the second time, rather tentatively, and the interior of Tracy One swam into view. I squinted against the dimness to see Scott's profile appear in my direct field of vision. I blinked painfully and tried to focus. It didn't work.

"Owwww….."

"Surely I don't look that bad…" My brother appeared to be joking, though I couldn't easily see any sort of detail at all. Only the worry in his voice proved that it was in direct contrast to my estimation of his expression.

"No," I croaked in grim amusement, gathering my courage to actually sit up, vomiting most definitely being on the list of 'Things That John Tracy _Doesn't_ Want to Do Today'. I clenched my fists as a wave of fire burned its way down the nerves in my legs, leaving my back to feel as though brands had been burned into the underside of my skin. "I probably look a helluva lot worse than you do."

Scott chuckled lowly, assisting me into a seated position without me having to ask. I had to admit that I was having rather a difficult time figuring out which way was up, biting back a loud grunt of pain as my head gave off a rather savage throb.

I was truly scared to realise how bad I was feeling. Up until this point, despite the nausea and throwing up I'd been doing, as well as the infrequent, terribly agonising migraines, it hadn't hit me all at once before.

Put simply; I felt like shit.

It was slowly coming to my attention, that all these little clues indicated that things were getting worse for me, and I really didn't like it at all.

I was shivering in the now-cooled air of the cabin, and I pulled the blanket more tightly around me as I became aware of the sweat that built up on my forehead from the pain I was in from my back, head, and everywhere else in between.

Scott seemed to have cottoned on to that without me having to say anything specific, for which I was grateful. I didn't have the necessary mind-mouth connection to say anything more than simple, just-past-monosyllabic sentences right at that moment.

I again thanked God that my brother had awesome mind-reading skills, as he tucked an arm around my skinny ribcage and levered me to my feet. It was a clue as to how bad I truly was that it took no effort whatsoever on my brother's part to keep me in an upright position. I didn't have any clue in the slightest as to where we were actually going, but I found myself tripping a little over my feet as Scott guided me towards our apparent destination. It was a battle between me and gravity; one that I would be losing if not for my older brother's strong arm basically holding me up against buckling knees.

This really sucked.

I sort of realised that my brain was merging all my time together to form one continuous stream, without any comprehension on my part as to what lay in between my periods of lucidity. One minute I was watching my own feet with way too much focus in an attempt to keep my balance, the next I was laying on the bed in the spare room in the farmhouse, having bypassed the trip in the car and the move up the driveway. That disturbed me more than I felt like letting on, but I didn't have the effort required to dwell on it with any sort of depth. That was frightening.

I heard murmured voices, one of them Gordon's asking if Scott thought that I needed any more meds before they let me sleep, and then there was the soft warmth of a fleece blanket pulled over me, and I knew no more.

Pain, haze and scorching heat were my next handful of sensations. I didn't like them.

I was alone in a searing pit of fire, and I didn't like it in the slightest. I was also wet and cold in places, but there was someone shaking me, and I wished it would stop. I was hurting, especially my back and my head; fiery, sharp pain that I wanted to stop and to let me go swimming. It was cool there, but I was alone. Where was Gordon? He'd be there if I was swimming. He loved the water. He was a fish. I preferred starfish. They were much more a representation of my beloved constellations than anything with fins.

Where were all my brothers? Where was the Firefly if the building was burning? Where were my brothers?

I was scared. I wanted my Dad, and I wanted Scott.

What was happening? Where was I?

There were people talking; there was beeping and hands moving, jabbing and poking. I tried to tell them to stop and leave me alone, to let me sleep, but my mouth seemed stuffed full of cotton wool. That terrified me. How was I to communicate if I wasn't able to talk?

There was sudden coldness and coinciding wetness to separate the heat for the smallest second, flooding into my lungs and soaking into my skin, but then I sank beneath the broiling, but rapidly cooling waters, and welcomed the relief it gave.

##

I was surprised to have the sensation of floating. After everything else I'd been feeling over the past few hours, this was much more comfortable, and blessedly more numb than I had been for a while. The sensation I had at the moment made me more willing than not to return to the waking world.

I emerged from the cloudy state slow-ish, taking tiny steps that showed me that it wasn't quite as pleasant as my brain had initially led me to believe. There were little things there that should have alerted me to the fact that something was different to when I had gone to sleep. Like the sounds.

When I'd lain down to sleep, I'd been unable to clearly hear the sounds of my brother's voices. The fatigue and exhaustion had been so strong that I had had a lot of difficulty working out exactly what had been expected of me in terms of sound and movement. I knew that I must have greeted Grandma, but I couldn't remember action of doing it for the life of me. I felt awful. How could I have forgotten to greet my grandmother? I was disgusted with myself. Maybe it was because of the cotton wool. Yeah. It had made me numb and made me not remember that.

This was a different sort of numbness to that first one. I found that it was better than the one before, cooler at least. It was with that realisation that my brain started behaving consciously; actually using thought to accomplish rationality.

I felt the world around me lightening, with sounds and scent that I recognised immediately, but couldn't even make the connection of the significance they held.

More time passed, and soft voices slowly came evident. They were pitched low, talking indistinctly, but I was distracted by other matters.

There was a beeping sound close by that was really irritating me, but I pushed it out of my mind as I tried to absorb the cacophony of signals that my body was sending me to sort through. Some of it was of the five senses; the fresh taste of oxygen; the scent of cheap laundry powder mixed with antiseptic, the itchy feel of woollen blankets rubbing through the sheets, the dark beneath my closed eyelids. But overall was the one of pain.

It was nowhere as bad as it had been before, but it was still substantial. I hurt everywhere, but nothing more than a dull ache this time, except for one detail. The thing that took my attention was the right side of my chest, directly beneath my arm.

It _ached._ I knew that I had a fucking great lump beneath it, but for crying out loud; it hurt!

As soon as I became aware of that, it peaked, and it was not the nicest of sensations, to say the least.

I broke through the last of the fog with a gasp of pain.

My eyes burst open, and I was somewhat, grimly pleased that at least the light wasn't attacking me anymore. There were suddenly a couple of faces above me, and I blinked in mingled muzziness and astonishment at the things I saw, for two entirely different reasons.

Dad and Scott were both above me. That was weird, considering that Dad was supposed to be in Auckland. Had he really learned to teleport? The second was that there were white walls and beeping machines to add to my general sense of confusion.

The third was something I hadn't expected to see in the slightest, even considering the suspicions that were forming in my mind. The actual thing was good; but the suggested reasoning was neither good nor comforting…


	27. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

In my shock I tried to speak, only to panic as I realised that there was something stuck in my throat; choking me and burning through the contracting of my larynx. The hot, searing fire from before was gone, but there was still a rather substantial cloud of fog twisting around in my peripheral vision, making me confused and scared. I hurt so much. The pain was overwhelming.

I really couldn't see further away than the faces above my own, but it was enough to somehow temper the sense of shock, horror and utter agony that flooded through me. I found that my hearing still wasn't working as much as I would have liked. My father was talking; I could see his lips moving, but I couldn't understand what he was saying in the slightest. Scott's face moved away quickly, and I blinked, disoriented and afraid at what was happening to me. What the hell was going on?

I could sense Dad meant his words to be soothing, but I was still very confused and utterly terrified as to what was happening, and why everything hurt so much, and why I was so out of whack. How in the hell was my father here with me when I knew for sure that he should still be in New Zealand with Alan and Virgil?

Virgil was here though. I had seen him as I frantically flicked my eyes around the parts of the room that I could see.

That alone was freaking me out more than anything else at all. Even as I panicked and held tightly to the hand I suddenly realised was clenched spasmodically within my own, part of my mind was analysing the bits of my brother's face that I could see clearly in my short-sighted vision. He was still far too thin for my liking, but there wasn't that terribly exhausted pallor that I had seen the last time I had laid eyes on him, and the pink in his cheeks seemed to point to that of health instead of infirmity. That alone seemed to indicate that I had been out for a while.

I felt a thrill of horror run through me as the questions presented served as a distraction from the significance of my current predicament. I was taken by surprise as the quiet words 'cough', and 'count of three' came from the person in white who had suddenly appeared at my side, and I managed to absorb them enough to do as I was told. The time was dancing out of my reach again, and I hated that I wasn't in control of what was happening. I struggled against the firm hold on my body, hissing at the explosion caused by my chest. What I did notice however, through my blind terror, was the fact that the person who was holding my hand was slipping away. Feeling the panic of losing grip again, combined with the unconsciously obeyed instructions from the doctor, I cried out around the tube as it came out of my trachea, sending a wave of sour-tasting bile rushing out of my nose and mouth as I gagged.

Tears streamed from my eyes in a convoluted mess of fright and intense pain, as I was rolled to my left side, and I whimpered painfully as someone held the fiery ball that was my right arm, and kept it gently in the air as I heaved into the emesis basin that had suddenly become the focus of my world. I lapsed into painful, heaving coughs that felt as though the very lining was tearing away from the insides of my lungs, and there was a hacking sound coming from my own mouth that was giving me clues as to exactly why I was here in the first place.

I sobbed, the tearing in my chest and the intense agony in my side and shoulder not leaving any room for the rest of the world to come in.

As they rolled me to my back again, raised against the numerous pillows, I held tightly to the hand that still lay between my fingers, and slipped back into the dark.

##

My next awakening was a little more peaceful.

When my eyes opened, my world was slightly skewed to the side. The lighting was still dim and soothing to the thumping in my head, but to my thoughts —a little surer now and considerably more alert— it was a bit of a hindrance to seeing who was sitting at my left side. The silence that otherwise would have existed was broken only by the beeping that had reemerged into my awareness, and I knew that it was from whatever monitor they needed to keep an eye on me. I had gathered at this point that I was in the hospital, but as my mind gradually became clearer, I realised that I had absolutely no idea _why_.

I breathed evenly through my nose at the discomfort that I felt in my side. I tried to lift my left hand to feel my chest, but I hadn't realised that it was held within my companion's grip. I bit my lip against it, and nearly chomped through the entire thing, wincing as the action alerted me to the ulcers that were present. I tried again to loosen my fingers, to allow myself to alleviate the ache in my terribly sore side, but it was to my confusion that my arm wouldn't obey the 'pull' command I was giving it.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you…"

I inhaled sharply as a wave of pain rolled over me, a hot throb emanating from both within my chest and my shoulder, as I jerked in surprise; taking the very idea of moving at all straight out of my head. I'd know that voice anywhere…

"Virgil?" I breathed, squinting past bleary eyes and my thumping head to see if I were truly dreaming

I wasn't.

It was my little brother all right. I vaguely remembered my last bit of awareness, and I was glad to see that the little details I recalled didn't seem to be proving false. He was indeed looking much healthier than when I had last seen him, and that again suggested to me that something had been terribly wrong for that to have happened in what appeared to be an unbelievably short timeframe.

Virgil's lips quirked at my question, twitching into a grimace as he affirmed it. "Yeah John. It's me."

I frowned, struggling through the still-thick fog to try and make sense of the thoughts floating around in my brain. It was like trying to catch a flea with a net. I settled for the simplest questions I could find. Comprehension would have to wait.

"Where's Dad….'Cott?" My voice was slurred, my mouth dry. My brother offered me a spoonful of ice-chips from a cup that he suddenly produced, and I sucked them gratefully as he answered my question.

"They're getting some lunch. Al and Gords basically had to drag them out. I had to convince them that I would be okay here on my own. They're still a little jumpy."

I frowned. I needed to ask Virgil about that, but I had some personal questions first…

"Wha' 'appened?" I winced as the words cracked through dry lips, swallowing against the dry, burning ache in my throat from the tube they'd removed. "How—?" I grunted in pain as the words triggered a harsh, rattling cough; taking a shallow breath to steady myself against the searing it caused. God in heaven that hurt!

"Shhh, don't speak John." My brother laid his other hand on mine, and I wondered, my brain scattered, why exactly I hurt so much. I forced myself not to float off into pain-induced la-la land and listen to Virgil. I wanted to know. I needed to know what was wrong with me.

I had to wait.

There was suddenly a figure in white waiting at the side of the bed. I looked up to see one of the nurses, the lights from the hall flooding in to join with the sunshine flooding through the closed venetian blinds on the window. I gathered that it was mid-afternoon.

"Good afternoon Mr. Tracy." The woman's voice was quiet, and I appreciated it against my achy head, but I knew what she was going to ask, and I shook my head immediately.

"I don't want… meds… I need to… talk to my brother…."

She frowned, her pale brows puckering to form an indentation in her forehead. "Mr. Tracy…"

"John." I hissed through the stab of pain, my voice cracking as it moved through my dry throat. "I just need… Five minutes."

She looked on disapprovingly, and Virgil frowned unhappily, but he eventually nodded and gestured for her to leave.

"John." He began, but I interrupted him.

"I want to know….Please… Virge?"

He nodded, frowning, but began anyway, his voice quiet in deference to my thrumming headache.

"You had a kidney infection. Your white blood cells dropped rather suddenly when you were at Grandma's, and you ended up in here. You'd told Dad you'd been having back pain, yeah? And you'd been really tired?" I nodded, trying to keep up. God I was tired _now_ … but that made sense…

"It came on really fast, they said. You were headachy and really out of it when you went to bed, but you developed a really high fever during the night. They had to call an ambulance to get you here… It was really a bad one John." My brother's voice cracked on my name, but he still kept going. He had begun so strong, but I could sense that he was crumbling. I found disbelief cutting a swathe through the ever-encroaching fatigue, and clenched my teeth at the awareness of the pain it brought. Not now. _Don't let me phase out now…_

"You'd also managed to catch the beginnings of a cold, somehow. It was just starting off. They watched you for a few days, with the fever and the infection, but it just got worse because your levels were so low. Fluid was building up in your lungs, and they had to insert a tube to drain it." My brother indicated my side, and I realised why I was hurting so badly.

"You were struggling to breathe. They had to put you on the ventilator..." I could hear him swallow against the terrible memories. "That was when Scott called Alan, Dad and me." He was almost crying now; I could hear the agony in his voice, and I could tell how much I'd hurt him, though I knew I couldn't have helped it. I yearned to give him a hug, to take away his bad thoughts, but I was too weak to even think about it. I closed my eyes to ride out the pain that was washing through me with greater force with every second that passed.

"We nearly lost you." The words were whispered, but it was as though he had shouted them.

 _We nearly lost you._ Those were the words that sunk in. My skin let off goose-pimples as I realised the massive implications of that. I thought back to when they'd tested me at home, before I'd found out about the chest mass. My white blood count hadn't been too bad; I knew that I had to be careful, obviously, but I knew that I was fine. It just went to show how quickly something so simple could lay me up like this so easily. It was truly scary.

"How… long?" The words were rasped, coming with more difficulty now. I was already so tired, and it was taking all my strength to ask my brother that question, or even to think of the ones related to it at all. I knew that I wouldn't be able to keep my eyes open much longer.

Virgil looked at me silently, clearly thinking about something, but I didn't know for sure what 'something' was. I closed my eyes for a second to ward off another wash of fatigue and spiked shards of pain. I forced myself to listen to him, despite the sleep that beckoned.

"Nearly two weeks… It was so hard for you to shift it; especially with the kidney infection you already had. They were saying that if you were on the vent for more than ten days the chance of you waking up would get smaller with each that passed..."

I clenched my eyes shut as my body thought it was a good idea to tell me that I needed more sleep. I forced myself to ask the question, though why when I suspected the answer was another one entirely, I had no idea. I knew that my brother probably wouldn't have been telling me this now if he was still paying attention, but I could tell that he needed to tell someone of what was happening, and I needed to know…

"Why does my shoulder hurt though? All across my chest… my underarm—"

"They had to go ahead with the surgery." My brother's voice was dull now, and I realised that he was most likely reliving that horror. "The drain they used on your axillary nodes is also draining out your chest. The tumor was bigger than they thought; that's another reason why your lungs were giving up so easily. They almost didn't see it until it was too late…."


	28. Scattered Coherence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

There was a marked improvement of my cognitive processes when I opened my eyes; at least from my perspective. I felt groggy and still a little overheated, but it seemed as though all the wires in my brain seemed marginally more connected than last time. It took my brain a bit of work, but as my mental faculties gradually returned, I realised that I had fallen asleep in the middle of my conversation with Virgil. My eyes snapped open, only to immediately slam shut again as the low light of the room shot into my retinas.

Ouch was definitely an understatement.

I groaned as I shifted a little on the bed, discomfort at the position I was reclined in registering in a blaze of hot fire. My chest was tight, and my mouth was dry, exacerbating the tenderness in my throat as the sound emerged from my lips.

"John?" I was grimly pleased to discover that mere sound didn't send barbed sparks of pain stabbing into my head, and I decided that I'd satisfy my curiosity and try opening my eyes again.

"Dad?" I croaked, squinting past the fog to see the face matching the voice swim into focus in front of me. I couldn't deny that I was totally confused about the ease with which I had zoned out. I wondered where Virgil had gone, but I was a little distracted as Dad ran his hand over my forehead, and I sighed at the cool, rough feel of his fingers. Clearly I still had a fever to some extent.

"Oh John…" Dad sighed in tired relief. "Thank God. Virgil told me that you'd woken up earlier. How are you feeling, Son?"

I had to think about that; the mention of my immediate younger brother temporarily delaying my thoughts regarding my father's question. I lowered my eyes a little as the headache became more noticeable, but it was so muted compared to how terribly strong it had been last time I was awake that it was more of a minor annoyance than anything. My guess was that the nurse had come back to examine me in the interim and had given me the good stuff.

I took a mental inventory, making a step-by-step analysis of how each part of me felt as thoughts became clearer. I had already catalogued the discomfort from the area below my collarbone as a sound eight or nine on the scale, and the headache was there, albeit ignored, as well as the scratchy, tender feeling that was left from the tube that had been in my throat. There was also the deep-seated, throbbing ache that was centered at the side and front of the right upper part of my torso. There was no question that it was numbed by drugs, judging from the heaviness in my limbs and the fuzziness in my head, but I could definitely feel the jabbing pressure that would become screaming when the meds wore off.

There was coolness flowing into my nostrils with each shallow inhalation of breath, and I followed that thought down to the slightly crackly, painful tightness in my lungs that accompanied them. Different to the pain caused by the incision sites from the chest tube and the surgery, I knew that it was from the residual fluid in my lungs that my thoracic region felt so tight and sore.

"'M okay." I rasped, whispering to try and prevent the cough I could feel building in my chest, but I wasn't successful. Not entirely. My Dad seemed to realise what was coming even before I did; placing his hand on my shoulder and behind my back to lean me gently forward as I started to cough.

It was agony.

Pain exploded in a white-hot flare; shooting from my right side, all through my chest and down my sternum with each spasming inhalation. I gasped and choked on my own breath, beginning to panic as I felt the mucus catch in my throat. It really hurt.

I wrapped my left arm around my torso to brace myself as a nurse came tearing in, grabbing an oxygen mask from behind me as I cried out in pain.

I managed to calm myself solely by listening to my father's nonsensical murmuring, as I took in as much of the concentrated oxygen as I could. It took a while, but once I'd managed to slow my breathing to something that didn't hurt so desperately, I had to endure the nurse's poking and prodding to ensure that I hadn't torn any of the sutures that I knew were holding the edges of the incisions together, and that there was no damage from where the chest tube was. I found myself realising that I didn't even want to think about the different tubes and wires that were attached to my body. I held back a shudder at the thought of anything being inserted into me, even if it was helping me out.

The nurse left after ensuring that I was as comfortable as could be, leaving the oxygen mask over my mouth and nose to ensure that I was getting a good saturation. I hadn't even taken notice of her name. I hadn't paid much attention to anything yet, despite the higher level of thought that I'd reached this time around. It had barely been two minutes since I'd opened my eyes, and there was really nothing in my brain but confusion and achiness. I'd have been surprised if I managed to hold out long enough to ask _anything_ I needed to of my father.

I leaned back into the pillows, and raised my good hand, although it was hampered by the IV lines, to rub wearily at my eyes. I was _beyond_ exhausted, despite apparently 'sleeping' for two weeks straight, but there was no way in hell that I was going to go back there again until I'd gotten all the answers to the questions I had in my head about the surgery, the pneumonia, the kidney infection, and why there had been basically no warning as to their presence in the first place.

"Dad?" I asked tiredly. "How's everyone? Where's… boys and… Grandma?"

By the boys, I meant Alan and Gordon; Virgil I knew would be with Scott, and Grandma because I didn't even want to think of how she was coping with the two of her grandchildren ill, especially since we'd been through this sort of thing before.

"Grandma has Alan at the farmhouse. It's nearly two am. Gordon refused to go. He's in with Virgil and Scott in the lounge downstairs having a sleep. They're only letting us in two at a time. You're still in the ICU, and the hours are pretty strict. They're intending to move you to a normal room tomorrow, depending on your lungs."

I nodded, sleepily. I tried to force myself to try and drag the answers to my questions, but I could feel the mind-numbing exhaustion taking me over again, and realised that my little resolution wasn't going to go well with my body's inability to stay awake; not minding that it was extremely early in the morning anyway.

I felt a flash of annoyance at myself and my own weakness, but I knew from experience that there was nothing to be gained in the slightest by pushing my body past its boundaries, as limiting as they were at the moment. At least I had been able to reassure my father to some extent about my state of health. I knew that he really was struggling with this, and even though it was so small and insignificant; the action of just waking up in his sights, I knew that he'd would be a lot more at ease now he'd seen and spoken to me himself, rather than just hearing that I had from my brother.

I could feel my eyes slipping closed as fingers brushed slowly across the back of my good hand, instinctively avoiding the taped port for the IV they'd apparently attached for the presumed antibiotics. I relaxed, embracing sleep as it allowed me to escape from the pain, and breathed as deeply as I could considering the ache it caused, knowing that I was safe with my father.

##

The next time I awoke, it was clearly daylight, and my surroundings had changed. Muzzily, I recalled the echoes of my father's voice saying something about moving rooms, and I figured that this was it. I was on the opposite side of the room for starters, but not only was there a lot more space, there also seemed to be a great deal more furniture than before, and I didn't just mean the rolling table, the small chest of drawers, or the chairs.

I didn't appear to have anyone looking at me this time. All four of my brothers were there; only Grandma and my father remained absent, but it was with the greatest of interest that I watched them, despite the apparent reason why I'd woken in the first place. I found I didn't particularly care; achy chest and utterly painful head were irrelevant and thankfully ignored when I realised what exactly my siblings were engaged in.

They'd apparently commandeered the television set, and had turned it down to the lowest possible level as to not disturb me, but even I could tell, with my pounding head and blurred vision, that the Royals were definitely losing this game.

I grinned tiredly to myself, as I watched the anguish on both Gordon and Virgil's faces as they realised that their team was losing the innings. Scott was reclined on the couch nearest the small window, reading what seemed to be one of the old western novels that he'd undoubtedly raided the attic for, but I could see that he seemed rather more invested in the game, seeing as the Yankees would be playing the winners.

Alan was clearly fighting against the urge to yell at the top of his lungs. The Boston Red Sox were his favourite team, and the fact that they were beating Virgil's was making him overexcited. He was bouncing so hard in his effort to keep quiet that I was a little confused as to how he hadn't fallen over, with how precariously he was balanced on his knees on the seat of his chair.

I closed my eyes a little as a rather inelegant thump came from Alan as he jumped a little too hard as whichever player it was rounded third base and head for home, but the words popped out my mouth in a low mumble nevertheless.

"If you're not careful there Al, you'll take off and hit the outer atmosphere, and I guarantee that I'm not coming up there to get you."

There was a second of utter silence, save for the almost non-existent rumbling of the set, and then I was surrounded by older and younger brothers alike, some more subdued than others, but I was glad to talk to them all the same.

My eyes opened again, and a smile worked its way onto my lips as Virgil went sprinting out of the room, and I was then besieged by my two youngest brothers, asking me questions, and telling me things that probably weren't all that relevant, but l loved hearing it anyway. Scott just sat in the chair closest to me, and waited for The Two to run out of steam. I winced a little at their noise level, as much as I appreciated that they were pleased to see me awake, and he caught on immediately to the fact that Alan's higher voice was giving me a bit more of a headache than I ever really wanted.

"Guys." Scott warned. "Shush for a minute will you?" Gordon already had, really, but Alan, as he was, was still rattling on about something that included motorbike racing and engines.

Gordon elbowed the kid in the ribs, and Alan shut up immediately, the fourteen-year-old rubbing his chest in annoyance, though only for a second before he went to open his mouth to protest the treatment he was being given.

"Al." My voice was quiet, but as usual, it did the job. "I get that you're excited. Really I do. But can you please turn the noise level down a little?"

Alan looked horrified at his mistake. "Sorry!" He blurted, still in rather a loud voice.

I shook my head, my voice hoarse and dry, but thankfully no longer muffled by the oxygen mask. "It's fine. Just… tone it down a little. This headache's pretty… shocking."

And it was. Not very pleasant when I woke up, it was definitely climbing up the pain scale rather rapidly. I think Scott could tell, and he asked me, quietly, if I needed the doctor. He alone out of us seemed to have remembered I was still quite ill. I'd managed to forget, just in the slightest second, but as a person does when they don't want to face things; I pushed it away until it needed to be faced. Too bad it was sooner than I wanted.

I nodded disappointed, sick to death of being sick already, and wasn't that a scary saying to be thinking about when it was applied to what had almost happened to me? It sent a shiver down my spine.

Virgil had come back with both Dad and Grandma by then, and she carefully bent down to embrace me as soon as she saw my eyes were open, her curly grey hair and bright green eyes relieved and warm as she looked at my face.

"Hey… Grandma…" My voice cracked a little at the dryness, but that was easily remedied when Scott passed me the glass on the stand, helping me steady it against the trembling weakness in my left hand as I took a sip from the straw to moisten my throat. "How are you?"

"Oh, John." She sighed, rubbing her fingers over my cheek. "You're asking me if I'm alright, when you're the one who's like this! What are we going to do with you?"

I shrugged, lopsidedly, as I still, reflexively refused to move my right arm in anticipation of the pain that would result. "I don't know Grandma."

She only smiled tremulously, and kissed me on the forehead, moving slightly as there were suddenly footsteps in the hall.

"What a party we've got here." The newcomer's voice was recognisable and friendly, but the happiness I had at having my blood family together with me in one place was broken as he asked me if I wanted filling in on what had been happening.

My brain was playing tricks on me again; probably due to all the meds I currently had flooding me, but there was no stopping the desperate need to actually know what was wrong with me this time. Now that I was pretty coherent considering the circumstances, I recalled the reason I had needed to have the surgery in the first place, before all of this mess had occurred, and I knew that despite my achiness and painful body at the moment, I needed to pay attention to the best of my ability, and I would be able to ask for clarification later if anything didn't actually make sense.

Dr. Kingston's face, as always was set and calm, but the doctor accompanying him had rather a strange look on his face, like he didn't like what his colleague was going to have to say to me.

As my brothers, father and Grandmother retreated a little to the side, pleased looks now drawn and extremely tense, obviously knowing what was coming already, I came to a simple conclusion that proved that what I was going to be told wasn't something that I was going to like either.


	29. Just Another Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

The doctors immediately moved towards me. My brain was saying that I should at least make an effort to sit up and greet them properly; as my manners dictated, but it was clear my body disagreed. I was barely strong enough to move my arms slightly, and my head around on the pillow to face them. My head itself was pounding nauseatingly, and the blanket was hot and itchy against the bare skin of my feet, probably coming from the heat of the fever.

God this sucked.

My hands were trembling with the effort it took merely to keep my eyes open (weird seeing as they weren't in any way connected to my optic nerves or my brain), and my bad arm felt as though it was a dead weight attached to my torso. I was both chilled and hot with the gown, and now I was becoming more aware of my body, I could feel the undesirable sensations of catheters in my lower area. They were obviously needed accessories, like the oxygen cannula across my face and up my nose, but nowhere near anything even remotely comfortable. I realised that there was most likely going to be more unpleasantness to come as I came to a more coherent state of consciousness, and I found that I preferred the blissful ignorance of drugged sleep better than anything else.

My brothers and grandmother all moved obligingly out of the room to accommodate the physicians and to give me privacy while I was being examined, mentioning something about getting coffee and lunch, but I found myself grabbing my father's arm almost childishly with my good hand, holding tightly. I needed Dad, otherwise I'd go insane. This was all too terrifying and confusing, especially when I'd just woken up. He nodded wordlessly at me, and took a seat near my feet, laying his hand on my shin to let me know he was still there.

He was forced to move to the side a little though, as Dr Kingston said calmly that he needed to examine me.

"Basics first John, and then we'll work on the specifics. This is Doctor Kim." He gestured towards the Asian man beside him, and he smiled at me as I looked at him steadily. "He's the follow-up physician from your surgery, and we've been working together on your care."

As he was speaking, the two men carefully braced their hands around my torso. The oncologist had his left arm tucked around my back, his other one holding his stethoscope to the bad side of my chest, while Dr Kim waited patiently for the next step.

"Alright John." Dr Kim cautioned me, his accent broadly American, rather than the Chinese that I was expecting. "What I want is for you to take a breath, and on the count of three, we're slowly going to lean you forward off the pillows. Don't force it; just make it as deep as you are able. There may be an increased need to cough; and that is totally fine. If that is the eventuality, don't fight it. Take it as it comes, and we'll help you through it. Are you ready?"

I wasn't, far from it; but it wasn't as if I had that much of a choice in the matter. A dip of my head was the only assent that I could give them. I was too terrified of a repeat of the pain from the last time I had coughed to do much else.

I found myself reflexively holding my breath as the two doctors gently manipulated my body into a forward position. A pillow was placed beneath my right arm and in front of my chest to provide cushioning and something to lean against, and I felt myself gasping with the painful pulling that even that small movement instigated. I tried to jerk backwards to lessen it, but was stopped from moving too sharply from my father's hands being pressed gently onto my shoulders.

"Arrgghhhssssss…." I hissed; screwing my eyes shut as a bolt of fire shot its way up my side. I sucked in a breath and tried to keep it even. I really didn't want to cough right now.

There was coolness on my back, and I knew that I needed to breathe as well as I could for them to get a good gauge on my chest movement. Thankfully, it didn't take too long, and then I was able to lie back again.

There were pained tears in the corner of my eyes as the peaked agony drained away a little, and I closed them tightly against the fatigue rising in my chest, already utterly spent.

The sensation of something being inserted into my ear made me jump a bit, and then I realised that it was just an aural thermometer. I relaxed and waited until the soft beep sounded and the annoyance was removed.

"Still have a fever…" Dr Kingston muttered, and with my eyes still tightly closed I felt gloved hands come around beneath my chin to probe at the raised glands near my jawline, deftly avoiding the tube from the oxygen cannula as it trailed down my chest. "Lift your chin for me John… Swallow for me…"

I did as he asked, opening my eyes to blink a little as he shone a light into my ears and my eyes.

Dr Kim stepped forward then, getting me to tip my head forward so that he could use his gloved hands to undo the tie on the back of my gown. Pulling it off of my right shoulder, he sat down on the chair next to the bed. As his hands moved towards the part of me that was heavy, numb and throbbing the most, I tipped my head to see the thick padded rectangle of gauze that was taped across my shoulder. He peeled back the pad slowly, and I hissed at the uncomfortable tugging that it caused as the tape separated from the skin.

"Let's just see here…" He said quietly and I couldn't help but crane my head to peer at the line of raised skin.

It was pink and puckered, at the stage where the edges of a wound knit together, but there is still a chance that the smallest movement can split the seaming. It stretched from just above my clavicle, and trailed down the meaty part of my side around beneath my armpit. There didn't appear to be any infection that I could tell from both sensation and sight, but it was still remarkably tender as Dr Kim used a pair of clean-gloved hands to examine around the area. Nodding approvingly, he then got me to lift my arm up carefully so he could look beneath it, getting me to lean slightly towards him to lessen the tugging on the skin, and the region around the thoracotomy tube. He gently smoothed the dressing back into place, and helped me to lay the arm back on the stack of pillows tucked at my side.

"Alright John." Dr Kingston said. "Are you still with us here?"

I was, barely, but I was determined that my will would be stronger than my body this time around. I needed to know what had happened to me, and what was being done to fix it. I nodded, rubbing my eyes with my good hand to try and clear my vision.

Dad reached into a bag I noticed hanging at the foot of the bed, and pulled out my brown glasses case. He handed the spectacles to me, and I put them on gratefully; the world coming into much sharper focus.

"I know that you've woken up a few times since your fever broke a couple days ago John, but can you tell me the earliest thing you can remember, aside from laying down to sleep at home?" Dr Kingston asked me, and I wondered what this was in aid of.

"When I had the tube removed…" I replied wearily. "A few days?" I questioned, looking confusedly from my father to my oncologist.

"All your body wants to do is sleep off the remaining illness John. Don't be perturbed if it's longer than you think since you've been awake. You've woken with lucidity a number of times since we removed the ventilator, but it's perfectly natural that you don't remember the majority of the past few days. These things take a lot out of you."

I nodded, and rested my head tiredly against the pillows.

"You were admitted on March 29th, and it's the 11th of April today, so you've been here for around two weeks, John. You really are remarkably lucky that you've been able to improve this quickly, but you still have a long way to go."

There was something about that sentence that unsettled me, and my father seemed to be watching me rather closely, but I still didn't have enough comprehension to work out what that was exactly.

"You had what we call Acute Pyelonephritis, which is basically a kidney infection, but due to the severe drop in your neutrophil levels, and the suppressed reaction of your immune system because of the lymphoma, you didn't have any of the usual infection symptoms. The backache your brother said you had was initially mistaken to be from your sciatic compression from… five weeks ago now? Is that correct?"

I nodded tentatively at Dr Kingston's question, getting the gist of things, but I knew that there was more to come, mainly with my lungs….

"We treated that with broad spectrum antibiotic and it began to clear up within a few days, but your condition was complicated that first night because your temperature began to rise further. We conducted some tests, and discovered that you'd contracted a virus, most likely from just having to travel in the cold air."

"It moved to my lungs." I nodded. I remembered this bit from the scattered conversation I'd had with Virgil yesterday, or whenever it was that I'd woken last. I was a little freaked out to realise that I wasn't remembering any of my earlier moments of waking, but as the doctor said, I actually had a pretty good reason for doing so.

"Yes. That it did, rather rapidly, and the right one almost collapsed with the pressure placed on it from the mass. You were in the ICU for the next eight and a half days. As much as that was a very dangerous situation to be in, it also served as an advantage to us John, because when we screened your chest more closely and conducted some more tests, we realised that there was more to that mass than we initially thought."

I gulped, my eyes widening and my gut sinking as I looked at my father, who returned my gaze steadily, and sadly. I was fairly alarmed, to say the least. _What the heck happened this time?_

"There was the fluid building up in your lungs from the pneumonia, but you also had the beginnings of a pleural effusion, which is basically the same thing, albeit in the lining of your right lung rather than in the bronchi. It alerted us to the fact that the cancer has indeed moved to your lungs, as we feared when doing our tests at home."

I felt legitimately sick, cold sweat breaking out on my face though I knew for sure that they'd have stopped the chemo while I was ill. It was just my nerves and gut reaction that was causing the twisting of nausea in my stomach and the thick feeling in my throat. It was _inside_ my lungs? Shit.

There was an arm on my shoulder and I looked up to see that my father had moved up to me, Dr Kim stepping aside to allow me to grab my father's hand with my one with the IV in it.

I didn't want to hear any more, but I forced myself to listen, as the oncologist continued to speak, looking at me with concern and professional calm written over his face.

"The two of those things obviously necessitated the need to do a thoracotomy." Dr. Kingston indicated the too-noticeable tube in my chest wall, and I grimaced at the reminder, as if the feeling of _thereness_ wasn't enough for recall. I nodded though, and waited for my next bit of pleasantness.

"Your brother told me that he'd informed you that we had to go ahead with the surgery, but what he didn't say was that we've inserted two drains to keep the two fluids separate for analysis. The fluid from the pleural cavity was tested as it was drained, a process that we've only ceased over the past few days, and it's come back positive for the presence of lymphoma cells. That's obviously left us in a bit of a debacle, but I'll get back to that in a minute. How are you doing?"

He'd asked the question, but to say the truth, I wasn't entirely sure. I'd known that it was pretty serious, me having been in the ICU for such a long stretch, but I think I must have been in a little bit of shock because it didn't seem to be properly registering that there was something as bad as that wrong.

I nodded, gingerly; my headache was getting harder and harder to bear, but forced myself to tune in, taking a shallow breath to prepare myself.

Dr Kingston gestured for Dr Kim to begin.

"Alright John, so basically what we had was your lymph nodes in your chest growing at a faster rate than we would have liked, so what we had to do, was go ahead with the plan of removing the nodes causing the nerve compression. We also had to go deeper to remove the tumour that had impinged on the inner end of the pectoralis minor muscle in your chest, pushing out to your side and inwards to your right lung. That was called a Level Two Lumpectomy."

That definitely explained the deep-seated ache in that side. Damn it. I'd been cut, pushed, prodded, and drained, and it was no wonder I was hurting so badly, even with the heavy pain medication. I knew that the surgery would have taken a large amount of fat from beneath my arm as well as the nodes and the mass itself, which also would have accounted for the tenderness. There was nothing to give it padding.

My mouth was dry as I asked the next question. "Was there any damage to my nerve? The whole point of the surgery was to ensure that there are no issues with it…." I trailed off.

Dr Kim nodded. "There may be some damage to some of the smaller nerves in the in the plexus weave, but there is no apparent injury to the axillary nerve. If there are any issues arising with those, they should heal relatively quickly on their own, given time."

The physician consulted the data pad I had only just noticed he was holding, and looked back up at me, his expression a little less serious, but it stills sent a jolt into my stomach nevertheless.

"Although we are almost eight days out from your surgery, there is still a substantial level of swelling in the arm, which is why we still have the drain inserted as well as the chest tube. The fluid can become a problem if left to its own devices, so we've got something attached to your IV to help counteract that a little. The only thing we're substantially worried about at the moment with regards to that is the possibility of infection to the wound, and your range of motion. There is no indication as of the moment that there's any worry over that though, and a physiotherapist has been coming in to try and maintain your ROM, but there is difficulty due to both the level of lymphadema, and the risk of tearing the sutures, so that is slow going. Now you are awake however, I do encourage you to try yourself to move your arm every now and again in an exaggerated fashion, just to keep it as loose as possible. Keeping it locked in one position just seizes it up, and that's really the last thing we want, seeing as we're already cut into the muscle."

I nodded again. It was becoming increasingly hard to concentrate, and I could see that Dad was watching me steadily, but I had one last question to ask.

"What's going on with the chemotherapy? Are we still doing the EPOCH, or were we going to try something else?" My voice was raspy and unsteady, and not all of it was due to my physical condition. My emotions weren't over the top, not yet, but there was enough for me to be confused about the situation. I'd already thought about the chemo having to be stopped while I was ill, but considering how fast the disease was progressing, there was reasonable panic in my heart as I realised the length of time with which nothing had been happening.

Dr Kingston seemed to have realised that, and he instantly took care of my unease.

"While you've been out, we've had you on the immunotherapy regime to help strengthen your system, and keep your white blood cell count at a steady enough level to assist your body with healing. The intention is to continue that, and if your neutrophil level continues to rise and stays stable, then I am going to put you on an induction course of the radiation therapy in a few days' time to try and slow the rate of growth. Until the chest congestion clears there will be absolutely no point in going on to the next stage of your treatment."

I frowned, inclining my head as I absorbed all of the information so far. "So… What's the step after that then? Is the regimen going to change, or are we going to see how this goes first?"

"John." Dr Kingston sat himself from where he had been standing in the chair right next to my bed. "We actually need to talk about the next stage of the treatment. The EPOCH regimen isn't working as it should, even with the addition of the Rituximab, and you are unfortunately no longer in a suitable state for stem-cell transplantation. I think our next step will be enrolment into a clinical trial; there's one that I've found that may be suitable, but we'll talk about that next time. Now you need to rest. I'll get the nurse to come in and give you your meds, and we'll leave you to sleep. You're doing well with this considering the circumstances John. We're not done yet."

Dr Kim nodded to me from where he had gone to stand near the door, and Dr Kingston shook my father's hand, before they left together.

Dad moved up towards me, and I smiled weakly at him as I tried to pretend that the confirmation of my suspicions hadn't rocked me as much as they had. I failed miserably.

Thankfully my dad had come up on my good side, and I buried my face in his shirt as he wrapped his arms awkwardly around me, careful not to jolt my torso or smother me and send me off into a coughing fit.

We didn't have to say any words. I knew that he would have already gone over everything with the doctors dozens of times. All I needed right now was for him to hold me close.

I breathed in the scent of him, despite my shallow inhalations as I waited for the nurse to arrive, and I tried to pretend that things would look much better on the other side of sleep. The spice of my dad's aftershave was adding to the pleasant fog that was floating in my brain now that it had what it wanted, and I was glad, because it meant that I could at least pretend. The expected reality wasn't all that comforting, because I knew that it wouldn't be as kind as my wistful imagination, but I promised myself that I was sure as hell going to try.


	30. Splintered Mosaic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

There's something to be said for the way you react when everything in your world is falling to pieces. True, mine had been in shreds for a long while, but it still didn't make anything I'd just been told easier to deal with. I'd done it before and by God I was once again trying not to cry. This was really getting old. I tried to hold the tears in; I didn't want the nurse that was coming to see me so shattered and weak, and to my surprise I managed quite well. It must have been something to do with my father's embrace, but hell yes; it worked!

The aforementioned nurse entered with quiet footsteps and a tray-full of vials. I guessed that the reason for his practiced quiet was so patients weren't woken in the middle of the night, but I jumped anyway as the man's voice rang out louder than I anticipated.

Letting out a small moan of pain as I moved involuntarily, I slowly untangled myself from where I'd wrapped my good arm around Dad's waist; careful not to yank on the multitude of lines that snaked their way from the crook of my elbow to the bags that hung from somewhere above my head.

I kept tight hold of my father's wrist though, as I shifted into a somewhat comfortable position. I hated my continuous dependence on him, but I really wasn't able to deal with all the emotions running through me on my own. If acting like a small child was going to help remedy the mess of snarled feelings and confused thoughts, then so be it.

The nurse was polite, despite his louder voice, and carefully, if unnecessarily explained the purpose of each medication as it was administered. I didn't mean to ignore him, but I sort of zoned out, not wanting to hear about it in the slightest. As long as they were doing what they were supposed to, I didn't care.

I was dragged back by Dad's hand on my upper arm and his soft voice in my ear.

"Hmm?" I opened my eyes as he spoke my name. "Sorry?"

"The nurse was asking if you know what a PCA machine is, John."

I furrowed my eyebrows, and nodded a little, half-understanding flickering through me. I licked my chapped lips and tipped my aching head, trying for clarity. Got it. "Medication administration machine, isn't it?"

The dark-haired nurse nodded. "It stands for 'Patient-Controlled Analgesics', and Dr. Kim was wondering if you would be receptive to starting on that sort of set-up. It will allow you to have a little more independence with your pain management, as well as allowing us to know how your body is coping with it."

I nodded, recalling that Gordon had been on a similar thing during his long hospitalisation. I was relieved, because the use of it meant that it would allow me to stop myself from drifting off all the time, as much as my body needed the rest. It equaled a step in the right direction, and that made me happy. It was a good proposition, and I nodded, even as the drugs the nurse had just injected into my line began to take effect.

I was really not feeling all that crash hot by that point, so I closed my eyes and embraced the bliss they promised, letting out a stuttered sigh as I felt my body relax into the mattress.

I meant to say something to my father, along the lines of 'I'll be fine' or 'are you ok?' (Silly when I knew I was falling asleep, I know) but the effort of staying awake had pulled the ability to focus from my grasp and I inadvertently began to lose coherency. I felt Dad's hand ghost over my cheek as he removed my glasses, and I smiled to myself, even as I slipped into oblivion.

##

I woke up an uncertain time later feeling distinctly unrested. I was swamped in the smothering blanket of the still-lingering medication, (not that I was actually coherent in the first place) but I could definitely tell that there was someone stroking my brow, not least because the coolness of the gloved fingers were heaven on my achy forehead.

I supposed that I wasn't half as confused as I had been before, although I wondered for a second about the presence of protective gear; I recalled that my Dad, Grandma and my brothers had all been wearing them, I just hadn't put two and two together the first time around. It was reasonable to accept their needfulness, because though I was out of the ICU, I really wasn't in the best shape to come into contact with any sort of bug. I also had a vague recollection of the lot of them having masks tied around their necks, even the doctors, but the one thing I couldn't seem to grasp was exactly why they hadn't had them covering their faces.

I had managed to get myself pretty well distracted with that particular idea, but I was brought back to the thought that had sent me off on my tangent by the curiosity I felt at _who_ it was being so affectionate. It was weird.

My eyes were so heavy, and it took me a long while of unreceptive blinking and almost-nodding-off-again to find the necessary energy to drag them open even an inch. The soothing, repetitive motion didn't cease however, and it was almost counteractive as I concluded it was making me slip back into drowsiness.

I'd apparently drifted somewhat, coherent thinking lost amidst the fogginess, but then I felt a cough building suddenly in my chest, probably instigated by my smothered breathing. I flinched as the thinly-veiled pain rose to sweep me even further away into a sea of utter _ow_. My eyes finally flew open; a reflex reminder of ouch and shock rather than the result of any kind of purpose, as the breath escaped my mouth. I struggled to draw it back into my beleaguered lungs, but needless to say, it wasn't working all that well. The coughs were mixed with gagging as the sputum still clogging them made its way up my trachea, and I registered the foul taste as it slipped onto my tongue.

I became aware that there were words spilling into my ears from somewhere, but I was so sore and confused that they weren't making any sense. It felt rather as though I was swimming through molasses, and the words themselves were about as clear as that. I struggled for comprehension, but I didn't appear to be winning. Not by a long shot.

I flapped my good arm reflexively about me as there was something suddenly trying to slip over my face. My side was burning, and it let out a pulse of jagged lightning that jerked me into reality for just the shortest moment. I was hacking up the half of my lungs that weren't filled with mucus, and dear God did it hurt. I let out a choked sob, —because that's what you do when your side is tearing in half and your chest is so tight you can't breathe— but there was no reprieve from the pain it was causing until there were hands on my torso; rubbing both on my back and on my sternum. I felt the tension in my chest from seizing muscles ease just a little bit, and I was able to breathe just a little more calmly.

I wanted to open my eyes, to see exactly who it was stroking my face _again_ —was it the same person as last time? — But sleep and utter exhaustion appeared to be winning out. Consciousness slid away from me like water in cupped hands. There was a flash of utter annoyance that I was again falling asleep, but I didn't have the energy needed to defeat it.

##

Ow. Alright. I got it. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Thanks already with the tugging.

I averted my face from the direction of the pulling and screwed my eyes even more tightly closed. What in the hell were they doing? It was uncomfortable to say the least, whatever it was. It was sharp and continuous, and I let out a grunt of annoyance as I tried to move away. I dragged my eyelids open and craned my neck around to see why my arm felt like it was getting something peeled off of it, taking what felt like a whole lot of my skin with it.

My blurry eyes struggled to focus, but then I frowned a little as I realised I was alone for the first time in a long while. There was no-one present to be tugging at the dressing on my shoulder. With my good arm, I slowly reached around to feel gingerly for the edge of the cotton. There was a sticky film beneath my fingers as I ran them over the top of the gauze and discovered that it had somehow come loose, attaching itself firmly to the hospital gown. Gritting my teeth against any potential wave of pain, I wriggled the end of my thumb beneath the pad and peeled it off of my collar.

Thankfully, there wasn't anything to be worried about; for as I kept my shoulder as still as possible, it prevented any throb resulting from the movement. I breathed a sigh of relief, pleased to realise that my breathing was better than it had been for a while.

Curiosity got the better of me. I did let go of the bandage for a second, but it was only to move myself onto my back. It was bloody murder on my ribs as I used a single arm to twist myself around, but I managed it without any major problems.

Taking a deep pull on the oxygen that was still streaming in its annoying fullness from the cannula in my nose; I reached again up to my shoulder and unpeeled the tape from the skin the rest of the way, wincing at the feel of it pulling at the light hairs. I peered near-sightedly at the long, vivid-pink twist of the incision as it continued beneath the rest of the dressing, and I cringed. I'd already examined it before, yes, but now that I was alone and actually had time to look at it properly, I was amazed at how lengthy it actually was. I knew that usually with surgeries nowadays the smallest possible cut was made to minimalise pain and healing time, but seeing this one and recalling the extensiveness of the procedure, it made me realise that in contrary to my assumptions from before my admittance, the surgery had been anything but minor.

It again drove home just how dire my current situation was. I shakily patted down the pad again, making sure my shirt wasn't in the way this time, and coughed tentatively to clear my throat. To my intense relief, nothing untoward happened aside from a bit of a twinge from my side.

I wriggled a little, trying to find the relatively comfortable position I'd been when I woke, but I managed to somehow catch my good hand on the excess tubing of one of the lines taped to the side of my face, and the unfortunate result was a sharp pull from within my nasal cavity. It let me know of the stupidity of the movement by trailing a blaze of fire down my oesophagus and into my gut, and I gasped with the pain of it.

Effing _ow_.

Probing the tender orifice with careful fingers, I noticed that there was a tube other than the oxygen one protruding from it. I followed the thin plastic line across my cheek and down towards the side of the bed, and the pieces finally connected.

I knew I needed to stay fed and all seeing as I hadn't been coherent for so many weeks now, but I hated nasogastric tubes with a goddamned passion. I should have at least been thankful for the fact that hadn't cut into my stomach to get me the nutrients I needed, but blech, blech, bloody blech.

Speaking of dry throats, mine was ablaze again; the gumminess of sleep making everything dry and sticky. It was hard to find the saliva needed to try and moisten my mouth, though I did try to draw some past the tube to wet my tongue. I wanted to reach for the water that I could see on the table beside the bed, but I was too wary of dropping the glass, remembering my terribly shaky hands from when Scott had helped me with it before. I didn't want to have to suffer the indignity of having someone change my clothes while I was helpless just yet, thank-you. It wasn't a pleasant experience for anyone to have to endure.

Something was obviously helping, my being stuck here. I was much more aware of things than I had been for a good while. I was glad, but at the same time, my brain was going full-speed-ahead with its over-analysis of my predicament. It wasn't really something I wanted to think about right now. I cast my thoughts around for an adequate distraction.

This being alone thing was interesting; seeing as I'd been surrounded by people for so long, and the lot of them were all rather smothering when they wanted, but it was rather a disconcerting state of affairs. I wondered where they all were. I missed the reassurance of their company; it stopped me from thinking about the unmentionable things that were spinning around in my head at the minute. I resolutely pushed them away into my subconscious —regardless of the fact they'd just slip into my dreams instead— and rubbed my hand over weary eyes.

I found myself taking the time to look around the room, taking in all the wonderful comforts of a four-sided white-walled prison. That's what it was beginning to feel like right now: Solitary Confinement.

It was pretty blank, really; confirming my theory of it being like that. The skirting boards were paneled with a dark wood of some kind, and the floor was linoleum, but it looked so brightly clean that I would probably be able to eat off it; if I were actually eating solid foods, that is. There was the television, a number of chairs and the couch beneath the window, but that was it. The venetian blinds were tied almost-closed, and I was able to make out the fuzzy details of the furniture through the thin beams of light that sneaked through them, but it was so dim, and I was feeling the pull of tiredness and something altogether strange running through me again. I sighed, trying to gather the strength to roll back onto my side. I was so worn out.

I sighed.

"John?"

My head whipped up, and I winced as it throbbed with the red heat of abused nerve endings. I peered through the momentary haze from the directional change, and my older brother's profile came into sharp relief from the shadows of the doorway. He was clad in the pale green scrubs that I recalled my family wearing however-many-wake-ups ago, and he rubbed his hands together, the sweet alcoholic scent of disinfectant intruding on my senses.

"Hi." I croaked, swallowing. Damn, I wanted that water _now_. "How's it goin'?"

Striding in long steps around the side of the bed, Scott passed me the cup of blessed liquid as he sat on the chair nearest my head.

 _Thank-you._ I told him silently, as I sucked some of it in, sighing as it hit the back of my throat.

"Fine." Scott's voice was low and tired, and I saw that his eyes were bloodshot. Not a good sign. And I could see it even with a headache threatening and all the good stuff flooding my system. Something was wrong.

"Scott." The single word was lined with fatigue, but I could see that my tone had an effect on my brother. "You're not alright. What's the matter, aside from the obvious?"

Big Brother was struggling with something; I could see it in the line of his mouth and the way his eyes were pinched at the corners. His premature crows-feet deepened when he frowned, and I had never liked it. It always made Scott look older than his twenty-four years…

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I now remembered why I felt so unsettled when the doctor had told me the admission dates.

_March 29_ _th_ _to April 11_ _th_ _…_

I'd missed Scott's twenty-fifth birthday, by almost a week, if my math brain was functioning to capacity…

Shit.

Scott could clearly see something in my eyes, despite my inability to form speech right then, and he raised his eyebrows above those too-tired eyes and looked at me steadily.

"Scott—"

"No, John."

"But—"

"It's not your fault, Johnny." His voice was firm in the 'I am right, and I'm sorry but you're wrong' sense and though I wanted to protest, I really didn't have the energy to argue with him. Damn.

His eyes softened against the stubbornness of his expression, the lines loosening a little around his mouth. "Just knowing that you're alright is the best present you could have given me."

I mouthed soundlessly and senselessly; even the soreness of my throat from the continued talking wasn't an excuse as to why I couldn't produce words. The raw pain I saw in Scott's violet-blue eyes —a huge change to how my brother usually faced difficult situations —was enough for me to realise just how much of a terrible scare I had given my family since I had been admitted.

I again got the sense that I was missing something terribly vital in the whole puzzle, probably because of my deliberate ignorance of anything but day-to-day functioning, but the fact that my normally unshakable elder brother was looking so damned vulnerable right now was really letting me know just how fragile everything had become. I needed the rest of the pieces for the picture to become a clarified whole, and soon; but I needed to deal with this first. Quite directly and swiftly, by the looks of things.

Scott swallowed heavily around whatever obstruction was making his Adam's apple bob in his throat, and to my worry and concern I saw his chin tremble and his lips tighten around something wholly indefinable. He lifted his right hand to run it roughly through his mussed brown hair, and the other clenched tightly against the edge of the mattress, digging the nails in as though he would be able to tear either thing out by sheer force of emotion. Something was bothering him.

My eyes caught a flash of white beneath the sleeve of the protective gown that covered his sweater and I frowned in distraction despite my worry about him. That was plaster. I didn't recall Scott having that on his arm before…

I was shaken from my concerned musing, as I heard an odd choking noise. I was surprised for a second; it sounded like it was coming from a small child.

My eyes flicked up in alarm to see Scott's face crumple in an expression I hadn't seen on his face for _years_ , and it was only twice that it had ever actually appeared. I looked on in shock as I saw that wetness was pooled at the edges of his eyes, and that his mouth was twisted in a shape that communicated something incredibly heart-wrenching.

It might well have sounded overly dramatic, and it would have if it had been any other person I was applying the sentiment to, but this had _never_ happened before in my memory; even back when Dad had told Scott when he'd woken in the hospital after the avalanche, that Mom had died.

Scott was crying.

I knew that he had done so before; I had heard him in the dark hours of the night during the months following her death because his attic bedroom was right above mine, but I knew that he had never done so in the sight of the rest of us boys. He still held the absurd idea that he had to appear invincible to us, when in reality, he had every reason to feel like any other normal human being. What terrified me the most was that I had no idea what could have caused such a strong, blatantly _unfamiliar_ reaction from my usually unshakable older sibling. He was my older brother; one of the men I most admired, and it was scary to realise that I knew that if I was seeing what I was right now really meant that something was terribly, awfully wrong.

I laid there, half propped up by pillows, with pain thrumming through me, but I ignored it all to stare helplessly at Scott as he shook rigidly in his seat; hurting with a pain that I had no idea how to soothe.


	31. Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

I was sure that my heart stopped beating for a whole two seconds upon that realisation. I hated feeling helpless, and the way that Scott's face was reddening with the effort of keeping his shaking to a minimum, I was at a complete loss to work out what the matter was.

He'd scrunched his eyes as tightly closed as they could go, and the hand that had formerly been clenching his hair was now holding onto the rail beside the bed; the sides were pulled up, ostensibly to stop me from falling off of it. His knuckles were white as bone against the metal and I winced, knowing full well how his hands seized up when he put them under too much stress, especially the left, where his wrist had sustained multiple, serious breaks only a few years ago.

"Scott?" Now I was getting alarmed. I reached up to lay a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Scotty? Wha-What the hell's the matter?" I coughed a little; the breath catching in my chest as my heart began to beat faster in panic. "What is it? One of the boys? Virgil? — Damn it Scott, talk to me!"

My brother looked at me, the tears still leaking from his eyes, insensible sobs still wracking his lanky frame. He shook his head imperceptibly, and I relaxed, only to have my eyes widen as an unpleasant thought struck me.

"Scott," I ventured carefully, not really wanting to hear the answer in case it was unpleasant, and I was pretty sure it was. "Is there something wrong with Dad? Or Grandma?" Again his head shook to either side, his dark hair brushing his face with the motion. I shook my head in confusion as I growled at him, impatience kicking in from headache and pain in general. "Well spit it out then!"

Scott seemed to be making some sort of leeway with being able to form proper sound; the wheezing pants ceasing a little as he made a sort of clogged hiccup-snort. He somehow managed to get rid of the lump he'd been fighting to swallow, and let out a wet chuckle instead.

My forehead puckered in worry and bemusement, and I wondered what on earth was going on with him. First he was crying, and now we'd moved on to laughter. This was _really_ weird; to say the least.

"Nothing's wrong Starman." Scott finally managed, gasping in a shaky breath. "Just a guy falling to pieces over nothing."

Oh, right; _nothing_. That explained things then.

"Yep. Like that's nothing, Scooter." I gestured towards the wet trails on his face.

Scott hurriedly wiped them away, his cheeks stained red from embarrassment.

I was relieved that 'nothing' was wrong with anyone in our family in a physical sense, but in an emotional circumstance, it was another matter entirely. I'd known that Scott was holding onto a lot of stress and worry since the attack, it was just how he was; unable to shed his persona as protector and defender, but I figured at he'd done _something_ to work himself out and get back to something at least resembling calm.

But despite my observations of Scott's behaviour, I was still entirely weirded out by what had occurred. It was hardly fair for him to be judged for behaving that way, but I still felt like there was something missing from the whole picture that prevented me from seeing the situation in its entirety.

I looked at my brother seriously as his red-rimmed eyes rose to meet mine, and I knew that Scott could see the question written plain as day on my face. I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he completely intended to answer it, but strangely, my usually verbose and extremely sharp-tongued brother was struggling for words.

"Scotty?" I said quietly. "I really need you to tell me what's wrong. If it's not the boys, or you, then what is it?" I shook my head slightly. "You can't try and brush whatever it is off. You know that I know you far too well for you to even try it."

I let him stew over that one for a moment, not worrying about the unpleasant feeling that I wasn't going to like what was contained in the impending conversation.

I pointed at his left hand, the one as I'd noted before, that was wrapped up. I had a sneaking suspicion that the condition it was in tied with what had just happened.

"What's with the extra accessory Scott?" Straightforward and direct. That's how you had to handle him; nothing else worked otherwise.

I grimaced to myself as I realised that I reacted exactly the same way as Scott when one of my brothers were in strife or something equally concerning. It appeared that mother-henning was catching. It was probably rather stupid that I was worrying about someone else when I probably should have been looking after myself first or instead of someone else (take your pick of which one), but it helped me take my mind off the things I couldn't change quite yet.

I was still waiting for my brother's answer, and in place of a spoken response, Scott pulled back his sleeve almost curiously, keeping his eyes down with the intention to keep them from meeting mine. I could sense that he was trying to hide his embarrassment, but I had no intention of letting it lie; not in the slightest. I realised that I'd been right. It was a cast, and as my brother pulled it up over where his wrist would have been if it weren't covered, I saw that it reached halfway up his forearm and the plaster even extended over the top of his knuckles. He'd definitely done a number on it; that was for sure.

"Let's just say that punching a wall lets a guy know that they're far from indestructible."

Alrighty then. I'd half-expected that sort of response, but to hear Scott say it so bluntly and bitterly made it all that much less pleasant to hear. But what had caused him to do that? Last I checked, my brother wasn't prone to random acts of violence, even if they were inflicted on himself.

The muttered words were almost inaudible. If Scott had been any quieter, I wouldn't have heard him. He was usually so coherent and precise, in everything he did. Not to mention vocal.

He flexed his fingers, wincing a little as he stretched the fingers in the limits of the confining covering. "Broken hand and I've sprained the index and middle fingers, along with the wrist." His voice was almost dead, and it terrified me to limits that I couldn't define.

"Breaking points, huh?" I asked rhetorically, half-deadpan as my mind worked overtime in defiance of the cloud of dread and exhaustion hanging over it. I could understand that he'd finally hit his wall, but I still damn well felt like I was overlooking something, not to mention I was at a loss at how to help him.

Scott sighed heavily; the tears almost gone, but the stress on his face and lining his voice were communicative of the war that was going on inside his head. He ran a hand down his face, and then he spoke, his voice low and gravelly with the remnants of the emotion that had shaken through him. "There's something that I need to explain to you John, and you're not going to like it."

I found myself tensing instinctively; the tension actually hurting as it spread outwards from my chest and through my shoulders, settling somewhere in my shaky hands as I clenched my fists into the blankets pooled in my lap. It took me a few moments to find my voice, but when I did, it sounded so unlike my own, and not only because of the physical remnants of the harsh coughing and the tubes that had been stuck down it. I was sure as hell that I wasn't going to like this. The words trembled as they emerged, but I was far from caring.

"What do you mean, Scott?"

He took a deep breath, and looked me square in the eye.

"We've not been able to tell you everything about what's going on with… a lot of things, really." He said quietly, his eyes looking directly into mine. "It's because of a few different things, and Dad didn't want to tell you initially, but only because he wanted to protect you. The rest of us vetoed it now that you're more aware, because obviously it's you going through it all, but I can see his rationalisation. It's why none of us were here just now, John. We were discussing you and your treatment. Not only with the trial, but also with some other factors, that we've just gotten wind of."

I knew that I should probably have been annoyed that they had all been speaking about me behind my back (or while I'd been out of it), but the underlying meaning to what my brother was saying seemed to have been drawn to my attention like a warning label on a poison bottle. I could understand why they'd done it; I hardly remembered anything from the last time I'd woken, it was more images and impressions than words, and I wondered what other important things I couldn't recall. I knew with a feeling of sinking nausea in my gut that I should somehow be bracing myself for bad news.

Scott swallowed heavily, taking a breath that seemed threaded with the weight of the words that were to come, and I found myself stiffening, more than half unwilling to hear what they were.

Big Brother's eyes were wide and open to the clear emotion he was feeling; heavy concern intertwined with that unfamiliar fear I had noticed before. Usually so closed and defensive when it came to his emotions, I was finding it hard to handle the idea that my brother was as worried about my condition as he appeared to be. That wasn't to say that Scott didn't know how to show concern; God, he did that every day without even trying, but to see it so vivid and _there_ in his eyes really didn't do much for my tenuous confidence that everything was going to be okay.

I knew that it was in part due to the medication I was being given, and the lingering effects of the high fever I had been afflicted with, but I was also well aware of the actions of the human brain when it comes to bad news. I'd been through all this terror and uncertainty before, and although I had been much younger at the time, with much less understanding of what had happened to me, there was a certain 'Yep, I'm used to this' factor when I thought about what had been occurring: it was just one thing after another.

I was putting all I had into the war for my life, but the things I was being told didn't seem to really be shocking me anymore. Sure, I freaked out when I was plopped in front of another obstacle with _climb over me_ written on it in black marker, but when I was able to realise what it was that I'd been dumped into, I sort of pretended it wasn't as bad as it was in order to deal with it.

I had no idea of how I was supposed to be able to translate the thoughts into a sentence so my brother could understand what I was feeling. Not without breaking into pieces for the twenty-millionth time, but Scott hadn't even yet begun.

"There's more to what you were told in the meeting with the doctors than… than you think, John. We'd agreed on giving you the bare basics with the surgery and the treatment because that was the first time you'd been lucid for ages, but there's more that you need to know." His voice was stuttering; shaky and unstable, and I could see that he was struggling to find the words he needed to use. I felt uncertainty roar into greater prominence in my chest, accompanied with the throbbing pain of both headache and incision.

'Kingston wanted to come in and tell you of the rest himself, but as a family, we disagreed. We thought it'd be better coming from us than him, as much as he probably knows how to explain things a little more technically. Dad and the others are waiting downstairs. I said I'd be the one to come and talk with you. I knew that you'd be waking up soon enough. I needed to be the one to tell you."

My big brother. Scotty. He was sacrificing his own feelings to enable me to feel safe and secure, just like I'd be doing the same thing for him. It had been the same ever since we were children. The Three Musketeers Minus One, Batman and Robin, Woody and Buzz. The Tracy Two indeed. Scott Tracy was _my_ brother. Hell yes.

Scott's face was hard, as much as his eyes were filled with a mix of worry and apprehension, and I felt a thrill of fear as I once again realised the significance of Scott's emotions shining through the wall that usually kept them hidden close to his chest. The stuttering, jumpy quality to his words didn't help either. It was almost as though he was terrified to voice something, which wasn't right. Scott was never afraid to voice what he thought. He was just that kind of guy.

Scott grimaced, his jaw clenching as he ran his fingers viciously through his dark hair; and the tension emanating from him suddenly rose like the boosters from a rocket. I knew that it was coming, here and now, and I was far from being able to stop myself from hearing it. There were pros and cons to both hearing and not hearing the news that my brother was about to impart to me, but I knew that I'd rather know —despite how painful it might have been— rather than sit and wonder about it if I chose to ignore it. I was better off knowing. And with that thought, I knew there was no turning back.

Scott obliged my unspoken demand, but as soon as the words tumbled out of his mouth; choked, wet and unrecognisable despite the blind despair I could hear colouring his tone, and it scared me all to hell. He grabbed my hand in desperation and held on tight; so tightly that I felt the bones in my hand creak with the pressure. I didn't care. My eyes were riveted on his pale, tortured face, and I held on just as tightly as he was, grateful for the reassuring contact of brother and brother.

"They've only just got the results on the mass they removed back from the labs, Johnny." Scott croaked, his voice thick and damp and altogether unrecognisable. "There's… it's…" His voice trailed off, but then he inhaled and swallowed sharply; blurting the words out in a tangled jumble that I only partly understood through the sudden wetness of his voice.

'The lymphoma isn't stage two... Its stage three B, and the imaging wasn't strong enough to get the presence of it the first time around. They've found more inflamed nodes in your spleen from the images they've redone. It's so bad John. It's why the chemo wasn't working properly; your body was resisting it because there's too many infected cells for it to tackle. The dose wasn't concentrated enough."

His voice stuttered again, and I just looked at him dully, a sinking feeling unfurling within my gut that was cold, dark and unwelcome. I didn't want to hear anymore; screw rationality to the fuck-field and back. My brother continued regardless, his voice turned robotic and hard as he drove onwards; the tears falling thick and fast again as he fought to contain his own pain.

Stage three B. It meant that the cancer was both above and below my diaphragm; close to being stage four; the most advanced stage, but despite it being in my lungs (yes I remembered that pleasant little titbit, thank-you), it had not yet transferred into my spine or brain. As far as I knew.

'It's a secondary cancer, stemming from the chemo from last time. It's why it's accelerated so fast, and why you were deteriorating so badly. They didn't know it was there." A sharp inhaled sob broke through the half-erected wall he'd built up around his emotions, and his words got lost within his incoherence.

I was numb. That was all there was to it. I'd somehow lost the ability to feel, to think, to react; all within the space of a split second. It was akin to the analogy of a computer shutting down using the control-alt-delete command; with no sign of a proper start-up in sight. I was staring blankly at my brother with no awareness of what I was doing, other than watching his face for some clue that this was all a terribly sick joke. But like myself, my brother had no shred of a sense of humour.

It wasn't true. It just couldn't be. Not when I thought that I was getting closer to recovery, despite the roadblocks in the way.

I scrabbled for clarity, for hope, for a concrete way out of the world that was shattering around me, and that was exactly what the metaphorical something was. A life-line. Literally.

I needed something, anything to help ground me, before I snapped. I was that close to it happening. I needed something grounded, concrete. Real.

I'd forgotten that Scott was still present, lost in the agony of his own emotions, but despite how I jumped as he let out a yelp of pain —my hand clenched tightly around his— I didn't pay him any attention.

I thought the fact that I was dying was much more important.

My electro-shocked brain suddenly re-ignited, kicked into overdrive as the thoughts, feelings, memories and the recollections all roiled together in an incomprehensible tangle. The feelings they projected were caustic, white-hot and agonising, but I somehow managed to find enough sensibility to unscramble the threads of the snarled wool that were coiling rapidly around me like a strait-jacket.

I remembered the hazy conversation I'd had with the doctor when Dad had last been present, and I recalled Dr Kingston saying that we weren't done yet. The thought gave me my lifeline of hope; Scott hadn't been there for that exchange. He didn't know that the doctor still thought that there was a chance for me.

But then the thought was shot cruelly down in flames, when I realised that they'd been keeping things from me. What else hadn't they told me about my condition? What else had I missed while I'd been lost to the realms of living and coherent thought?

I found that I suddenly didn't care that their withholding of information was only for my benefit; that I wouldn't have remembered much, regardless if they'd fully informed me or not. I only know that I had shattered into a billion pieces; that I was for all intents, irreparable, and I didn't have the faintest clue on how to even think about beginning to put myself back together to form some sort of functional being.


	32. Blue Lattice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

Cold anger, terror, and falling, shard-like daggers stabbed and tore at my insides. Icy fingers of dread nestled in my chest, flowing from the rapidly-melting run-off; chilling me and numbing even further the depths of my despair.

Blue. That was what I was feeling, and not only in the depressed sense of reality either. Crystalline, razor-edge slivers of blue-laced netting encased my heart, and it was currently all I knew.

If I had space left to consider the current circumstances beneath the heavy layer of shock in my mind, I might somehow have been able to rationalise something a little more tangible than sheer, unadulterated fear. It was dry, frozen flames twisted into a white-hot snare, but despite that, the real fire still roared hot within me. It was half-remembered, that feeling of depression. It was something I didn't often succumb to, but I knew I needed it as much as I didn't. I needed faith, it was integral to believing I could get past this, but the cold fear still froze my insides, icy, painful and ever-restricting. A reminder.

In defiance of needing to break down and cry, I found myself clinging to the closest thing that presented some sort of grounding quality. And if that thing was Scott's only working hand, well then there wasn't really much that I could do about it, was there?

I could feel the tense rigidity of his fingers beneath mine, even as he clenched his hand tighter around my wrist, and I knew that he could sense how much that simple action was keeping me sane. I didn't want to lose it, my sanity, but this was just getting worse and worse as the weeks wore on; a snowball gaining momentum as the frozen water collected fragments of rock and branch and ski as it rumbled away down the slope. Like when Mom had died. I'd nearly lost my mind then. I hadn't spoken for weeks until Scott had drawn me out of it. It was like bitter memoriam identified.

My brother had always been the anchor in my life; as much as Dad was my father and there was a bond there that could never be broken just by virtue of being his flesh and blood, the nine months that we had been left to raise ourselves, all of us younger brothers were in the habit of looking to Scott as a secondary father.

When I'd first been showing the initial symptoms of my cancer (though none of us had any clue that was how serious it really was), Scott had been the one to notice how tired I had been, and I had been; exhausted, headachy, and not able to focus on things. I'd often brushed my brother off during that time, unable to put another issue on Scott's already heaping plate for the simple problem that was the result of what I thought was just me having nightmares and not getting enough sleep. He had been the one who had pushed me to tell Dad how bad I had been feeling (steamrollered shit and concreted over, if you were wondering) otherwise I would have never would have told him anything about it at all, and I would be long dead. It had really been that close.

I owed my life to Scott in more than that one way. He'd literally kept me eating when I would have refused to let our brothers go without a proper meal when Dad was struggling with the finances directly after Mom's death. Scott had been eating less than he should have, almost less than I had, and because he had been doing the store runs while I'd watched the younger ones, I'd known that he was eyeing me too. There were advantages and disadvantages to being the two brothers who had charged themselves with looking after their younger ones. As much as it was the firstborn's prerogative to drive the younger ones mad with their bossy ways, and I was guilty of thinking that way often, I was second-in-command and had three-quarters the right of the real deal. It was divine right diluted, in a weird, messed up way.

One of the advantages was that I had never had to hide anything from Scott; I'd never been able to and I never _would_ be able to. He'd kept me sane. We'd both seen the other's lowest points, and we'd never been able to confide in anyone else but each other. Our own private confessionals; skin and ear and blood and bone. Human. I'd said before that I'd only seen Scott cry twice before in my life; but in truth, it was only the immediate aftermath of the tears. The first was just after the avalanche when we were all still having nightmares, and I'd crept up to his room at home for comfort after a doozy of one. Humans have indefinable and undeniable flaws, and despite his protestations, my brother is most definitely human.

I'd stopped outside, about to knock and ask for admittance, but the half-open door had widened beneath my weight. My brother's head had snapped up and in the dim-dawn light, I'd seen the tear tracks on his cheeks. I'd demanded he tell me what was wrong, and he'd somehow realised that he needed to share with someone, and it clearly wasn't Dad; who by then had been assured that both Alan and Scott were safe and healing, and had buried his head in the sand, that person had obviously been me. I'd have rather liked to bury my own head, admittedly, but I wouldn't desert a brother when he needed me; mushy 'are you okay?' shit and otherwise notwithstanding.

The second time had been when we'd both been sitting up in the sycamore in the front yard the afternoon I'd gotten my first diagnosis, and he'd pulled me away from the other boys so I could be a little brother rather than a big one. However, instead of me being able to let out my own agonies, it had been Scott who had crumbled in a heap of spilling words and fear, and I had then followed suit.

There was the brothers-in-arms thing all in action with the two of us, although after that event he'd never really shown me his emotions. Even when Gordon had crashed the boat he'd been driving while on holiday with his friends from the Olympic swim team in Madrid, and we'd all rushed to that Spanish hospital, my brother hadn't cried. He'd been worried and as scared as the rest of us, but strong as steel and upright as a marble pillar. He'd still been Scott though; forever the optimist. He'd known somehow that our little brother would make it through those first, crucial twenty-four hours Gordon spent in the ICU and everything else beyond.

I'd fallen to pieces, and smashed into shards on the floor looking at our little brother, tiny in the bed; knowing that I could potentially be losing a second sibling —even if I hadn't been old enough to remember losing the first— but Scott had been strong, even through and in spite of that terrible realisation.

There was a pattern, I had realised, in how we reacted to each other's distress; a sort of corroboration with how we balanced each other out. Not quite yin and yang (that was Virgil and Scott, weirdos) he and I had a symmetry that was both attracting and repelling with how we responded to each other. We were almost each other's antithesis, dark and light, up and down inside and outside, but at the same time not, Neither opposite nor parallel, when Scott was in control, I wasn't, when Scott broke down, I was the one detached from his feelings and able to cope, but then when times were stressful we buoyed each other up. It was weird, but it was how we were.

It was a sour sort of realisation, but I'd come to learn that when my older brother cried, it meant that things were going to be almost impossible to deal with. And it was as I confirmed that fact in my brain that everything just sort of fell apart.

I started to shake and my chest hurt, but the funny thing was that my mind was very sharply clear.

It brought me back to my conclusion that my brother and I were each other's reverse inclinatory, as his arm snaked around my thin shoulders and pulled me tightly to his side, caution in his affection to treat me carefully lest he hurt me.

I was a little startled to realise that it was my right side he was embracing me from, and I reached around with gentle fingers, lost in confusion and stress, only to realise that the thoracic tube had been removed from between my ribs. I hadn't noticed that; either at the time or when I'd done my self-examination. That had to be an improvement, didn't it? Not a particularly impressive or bright one, I had to admit, but one nonetheless.

I knew that my brain was purposely deflecting my thoughts from the sheer magnitude of what I'd just been told, but I found that I was past the point of caring. It was soothing, in a backwards sort of way.

It sort of reminded me of when I was a kid and I'd go and tip myself upside-down and wrong-way-up and just let all the blood rush to my head, and then I'd try and read whatever book I was devouring at the time until I was dizzy and confused. That was a reasonably well-thought-out descriptor for how I was feeling at the moment. Dizzy. Confused, lost and bloody overall terrified.

I'd realised that I'd not yet said anything in response to Scott's revelation. I'd just sat, hunched in my miasma of misery and blocked out the world. Scott didn't seem to mind though. Thank God for Big Brothers. Caps implicit and intentional and capitalised upon all the more.

It was like a shock of hot coffee, spilt on the fragile skin of my lap; scraped knees and sliced thumbs and the delicious pain of bruised fingers caught in doors comprised within a single, burnt-bright bundle, but the pain rocketing through my head with the swiftness of a lightning flash just compounded everything into an indefinable mess. Too hard, too fast, too bright; just by sitting and absorbing, I'd pushed myself too far and now it was interfering. I just needed this to eff off and go the fuck away. Period.

I fought through it, ignoring my own groan of pain, because despite his strength, his _I can do anything Starman, just watch me_ , I knew that just as much as I needed reassurance, Scotty did too, and it was killing me that I was hurting my family so badly. I despised myself.

It took a moment more of squeezing hands and gasps and mutual, hidden-but-not-concealed tears, but we were finally able to look each other back in the eye.

He grinned at me, embarrassed, sly and concerned all at once, and I was taken back to that morning in the kitchen at home, before coffee and soup and burnt fingers. It reminded me of times when we were kids; when he and I were old enough to do stuff on our own and Virgil was only two years old. Scott had been seven, me five, and Gordy and Alan had barely and not even been thought of. We'd been ragtag and rough, Mom had been baking with Grandma while they'd watched Virgil, and Dad and Grandpa Grant would take us to the park, or the airfield they'd been stationed at years ago, or just to the big hill at the back of the family farm and they'd let us run wild.

I missed those times. It was before the enormities of little brothers and responsibility and growing up had hit us, and it was times like these that reminded me of what exactly it was I fighting for. It was with that breath and the re-cementing of exactly what I stood to lose if I lost that helped me not to cry and to trust in the steadfast but tentative promise I could see in Scott's eyes.

"Okay?" He whispered, quietly, and I could hear the birds out of the window through the warmth of my brother's breath near my ear.

I drew back slowly, blinking away the traitor tears that were blurring my vision even more than usual, but nodded nonetheless, my hand moving to my side as I sat properly against the pillows. "Yeah." It was true, for the moment anyway.

There wasn't much more time for thoughts or anymore mutual expressions of worry, because there were suddenly Grandma, Dad and little brothers around the corner, and I grinned despite everything, because brothers are good and families are good, and it's not only family that are blood that make things infinitely better. I was even more thrilled to see the Kyranos, as well as Fermat and Brains, hovering shyly near the door.

It was a brilliant surprise, because I'd far from expected them to come, but I hated that they looked so uncomfortable, because they were just as much family as my father and brothers. I forced myself to look more alert, and I sat up as I gestured for them to come closer. It was to my pleasure that they did, trailing pale green and the sharp scent of disinfectant, but I didn't care, even though it burned the skin of my nostrils.

Onaha, being the motherly woman she is, pulled me close to her chest, albeit gently, and I smiled up at her as she looked at me sternly, the plastic protective gown rasping against the hospital shirt I wore. "You should be looking after yourself John Tracy." She admonished. "Tell your body to stop misbehaving."

I grinned at her, not minding that I had been trying to tell it that for years, but it had never cooperated. I loved Onaha because she was always able to make me believe that I could win at anything.

Kyrano, ever the one to think his words over, weighing them before choosing to let them emerge, nodded as well, silently echoing his wife's words, and I smiled at him in thanks. Tin-Tin shyly slipped into the space my outstretched arm presented, as Scott stepped aside to join our brothers and Grandma at the back of the room. I smiled reassuringly at her as I fought against the tiredness, and her eyes lit up at the simple gesture.

Over Tin-Tin's head, even as I ruffled Fermat's hair in greeting and beamed at Brains, I shot my dad a questioning look, and he rubbed his neck sheepishly as he answered my unspoken query. I was multi-tasking. Hadn't done it for a while…

"They wanted to see you, I wasn't inclined to disallow it, and besides, I'm sure that you're happy to see some different faces." My father's grin was wry, and twisted, and it was easy to see why.

"Yeah, you've probably had enough of seeing Scott's ugly mug!" Gordon ducked swiftly as said brother's palm went sailing through the air behind his head. I could almost hear the onomatopoeia as it missed by a scant couple of inches. I laughed, but it was mixed with the shadow of a cough. It was enough to bring the jubilant mood of family banter down as I gasped for a reclaiming breath. I was successful, but the damage was already done.

Like worried hens, the parents of the two youngest teens chivvied them out of the room, but not without reassuring smiles and nods of support that meant as much as Scott's hand back on my shoulder and Alan's warm presence by my side.

Grandma came over and kissed my cheek, both in greeting and farewell, and my disappointment that she appeared to be leaving too seemed to show clear on my face. She embraced me, all soft edges and warmth and cinnamon, and explained softly that she needed to get the guest rooms at home ready, because no-one but Dad had known that our extended family had been coming.

It made me happy that they'd headed out here, just for me, but I also knew how much I was stressing out my family, if the Kyranos and Hackenbackers weren't content with video calls and emails on my condition, as much as I knew they loved me as I loved them, as family. They'd usually prefer to stay on the island keeping our home safe and well-kept, rather than immerse themselves in our affairs off the base. They were family, but it sometimes seemed as though they existed outside of our little community. I found that incredibly sad that it had a) taken until now and very precarious situation to realise it, and b) that it really hadn't been made any better by the Hood's attack on us either.

I knew that my time was running into melted streams again; the minutes seemed like they were skipping seconds and doubling back, and I knew that I was getting tired. I didn't want to sleep again though; I was getting too used to being awake, so after I watched Grandma leave, I focused on spending the next few moments analysing the faces of my brothers, barring Scott.

Despite Gordon's playful dig at Scott a few minutes ago, I could see that the strain was showing in how stiffly my little brother was leaning against the wall. Like Scott, emotional situations for him translated into physical pain from tensed muscles and worry, straining already painful injuries. He was hurting, and I naturally didn't like it. I motioned him over beneath the pretence and actual intention of giving him a tight (for me) hug, and them pushing him into a chair nearby. It was a weak effort, because of my diminished strength, but he got the message I intended for him anyway.

The others were silent, Alan was still perched on the side of the bed, next to my chest and I'd had to reach awkwardly behind him to move Gordon, but he didn't seem to mind. He was watching my face, but I wasn't worried. Let him think he knew what he was doing, that I didn't know. I liked it better that way. I watched with eagle eyes (blind as a bat, otherwise) as Gordon relaxed in the chair, the hard back lending support a softer one wouldn't. He couldn't tolerate the position for too long, I knew, but I also knew how much the respite would be helping ease his tightened back and leg muscles. He needed the rest.

Virgil was another story entirely. I'd not been properly aware long enough to ask properly how his new diagnosis was affecting him, but now I was awake and functioning fairly effectively, I wasn't going to do anything else until I'd found a few things out.

Dad was watching the entire set of proceedings, as we all merged together, interlocked with each other like an impenetrable Tracy-son fortress, but I ignored him for a minute and focused on my second brother. Wiggling my feet, I knew I'd gotten my message across when he came away from where he'd sat at the window and perched on the edge of the bed, near my right knee. I was surrounded by my brothers, and that was the way I liked it, but that wasn't what I was thinking about, and I jumped right in it with two feet.

I wasn't going to force him to display every single thing that he'd gone through, but I also wanted to know how he was coping. I knew that in a way, my family was serving to be another sort of diversionary tactic to occupy my brain with something other than how my newest set of revelations was going to affect me, but I really didn't give any fucks right then.

I looked Virgil right in the eyes, ignoring our other brothers' attention on me and him, commanding my brother to look at me, and only me, so we could focus on what I needed to learn.

It was something I needed to know, and it had been a long time coming. I needed to know, so I could take care of him when I was better, and there was no need for him to take care of me. I needed to look after someone, to not be the invalid, and unfortunately for him, Virgil was my target.


	33. Precarious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

Despite the knowledge that like me, he was being watched over by a quartet of hawks, I found it a little hard to convince myself when Virgil said that he was doing fine.

The fine lines that ran from the corners of his eyes were deeper than usual, accentuated by the purple shadows beneath them, indicating that his lack of sleep had been continuing the entire time I had been hospitalised. I knew that it wasn't just because of the nightmares, but it was also because of the stress of his new illness, and of course, his worry over me.

I could see it in his face; I could see it in all of their expressions that they were scared about how I was faring. We'd all known that this disease and the drugs used in the treatment would mess me around a lot, but I don't think any of us had fully come to terms as to what that meant until now, when I had just about died because of something that on any other occasion would be basically harmless. I was really sick, and that was impacting the rest of them in ways I could scarcely begin to fathom.

Those first few weeks of the EPOCH regimen had really hit me hard; all of us had been affected by the changes our family dynamic had undergone, from how ill I was physically, to how I was dealing with things emotionally. I was usually the one my brothers came to talk things out with. I was always more a listener than a talker, and I know that all of them, Alan and Gordon especially, came to me for advice. I guess you could call me an agony uncle if you were looking for a way to describe me, but with how much I was sleeping and trying-but-failing-to-not-throw-up, the normal ways people shared emotions was altered, and that was instrumental in affecting how my family and I dealt with the emotions that occur when someone is as sick as I was.

It probably sounded egotistical to some extent; putting that ridiculous burden on myself in such a way, but at the same time, it made me realise exactly how important I was to my family.

That was why I was trying my best to put my own worries aside for my next-youngest brother. I wanted to focus on my family properly, to feel like I could be useful. It was silly of me, not focusing on myself when I needed the energy for other tasks, but it was something I needed in order to feel balanced.

Virgil's eyes were searching mine for some sort of clarification on what _I_ was feeling, but I had them metaphorically closed, only wanting to know what he had on his mind. He seemed to understand what I meant though, because he sighed a little at my stare, however unfocused it might have seemed to me. I frowned at him at his indicated hesitation, but let him speak regardless of what I knew he was going to do.

"John…" He ran his hands through his hair in exasperated agitation. Along with his next sentence, it was a last-ditch attempt to get me to not follow my current route. I wasn't having it. I knew his tactics.

"No, Virgil."

"But, John…" He shifted uncomfortably, but I fought through how that made me feel. I needed to know.

"Virge. Please?"

It was that single word that appeared to sway him, more than the hoarseness and croaky quality to my voice, and he clenched his fists on his knees as he wrestled with voicing what wanted to say.

The rest of our family was silent. I knew that part of the reason why Virgil was recalcitrant, reluctant to talk; that he'd been asked the question so many times that he was sick of it, but though I knew how he felt about it, I couldn't help but ask it anyway.

"It's… hard John." He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I mean, watching and understanding what Grandpa had to do and actually having to do it myself are two different things. I have to watch everything I do or eat, and I have to keep reminding myself that just having a headache means that something is either up or down, and then remembering to check my sugars all the time. I was doing it anyway, before this," he said, distractedly picking at a fingernail. "… but then I have to add it to the carb counting, and the insulin, and it's… it's just a lot to take in."

I felt a flash of regret that my brother was feeling that way; I could sympathise. I remembered all too well the daily cocktail of regulatory drugs that I had to take following the conclusion of my last lot of treatment, and how it had tired me out to have tests repeated to ensure that nothing was doing what it shouldn't.

His eyes rose, and he looked at me tiredly. "I'm still technically an outpatient, you know; all the worry about you being sick just keeps making my levels spike more than they should. We're finding it difficult to keep them down for long, so I keep getting stuck with needles so they can keep me hydrated." He rolled up his sleeve to show off his own IV port; the light bruising around it and the short line of marks up the skin of the top of his arm indicating that his veins were apparently as uncooperative as mine. It made me smirk, even as I winced at the sight of it. I already knew from looking at my own arms that they were in the same condition.

He shook his head wryly, even though he could see the knowledge and sympathy in my eyes. "It makes me appreciate how much you put up with me doing it to you without complaining all the time."

"Is it going to stop you doing it to me then?"

His lips twitched as he tried to keep a straight face at my lame attempt at humour, but he failed rather spectacularly, snickering to himself as his eyes came up to meet mine again.

The short bark of laughter that burst from me in response to his was wonderful, even if it made my sternum and side hurt, but on the upside; it made my heart just that little bit lighter. I rubbed my eyes as the pounding in my head began to intensify, and I figured I'd better get a move on before my body decided to give up the ghost and go to sleep on me.

It was probably not the best idea to be pushing myself, but I just needed five minutes to talk. That was all, and then I could try and focus on me. This had just been waiting too long.

I shifted slightly, ignoring the slight throb that resulted as I moved my arm, and cleared my throat; gritting my teeth as a hitch in my chest reminded me that it was still full of phlegm. Lovely.

"And?" I prompted my younger brother, rubbing my breastbone absently to alleviate the ache that was building. "Is everything settling okay? I mean, the routine, is that down and everything, you know how to track any inconsistencies, the warning signs?"

Virgil nodded, and I sensed that he didn't want to talk about it; there was a bit of annoyance there that told me that he didn't appreciate the pushing, but would do it anyway. I let him off the hook by allowing the matter to drop, figuring I'd take it up with either Dad or Scott later, but right now I was pretty content in the fact that my brother appeared to be coping as well as he could be. After all that stress about how he was faring, Virgil was going to be alright.

I'd already sort of known he would be, even before I'd initiated the conversation, but it's definitely easier to convince yourself that someone is alright when you've heard the confirmation from their own mouth first.

My other brothers had so far been silent, watching the discussion without interfering, knowing that I needed to make sure for myself how Virgil was. I was appreciative of that. I knew they could see how much I needed to feel in control of something. The tension over my illness was still hanging heavy in the air, but ignoring it for however long this had taken was helping me in a way that was so far indefinable.

Scott had retreated off to the side of the room, but he was sitting on the couch watching Virgil and I with eagle eyes. Alan had settled down against the wall next to where Gordon was leaning into the hard back of the chair beside the bed. I was glad to see out the corner of my eye that the tense lines around my red-haired brother's face had loosened a little with the stretching of his back muscles.

Dad was sitting at my right side, and as with my brothers, I could literally feel the stress rolling off of him in waves. I could feel the knowledge of my true condition nudging me in the side of my consciousness, and the heaviness of emotion in my chest was building up until I could barely stand it. Now that I'd gotten my worry about Virgil out of the way, as well as reassured myself that my other brothers were taking care of each other, if not themselves, my own terror was rising to engulf me once more.

I didn't want to cry. I'd already done it so many times that I felt wrung out, exhausted; but there was nothing else for it. My cheeks flamed without my permission as the saltwater and harsh sobs welled up inside me, spilling over and soaking through the sandcastle that I'd built against my fear.

They saw me crumble, and there was nothing I could do about it. I curled in on myself, the pain pushed aside in a mess of hot tears and wrenching sobs, and the warm arms of my father and brothers wrapped around me; previous thoughts forgotten as the realisation of just how much everything was failing hitting me like a ton of bricks.

I was drowning; I couldn't find the surface, and it _just wasn't fair_.

I began to cough as the shaking of my shoulders and huffing for air grabbed fistfuls of my chest and pulled; the tightness coiling in and around my lungs to create a knot that didn't seem to be shifting. I gasped for breath, and everything was remarkably clear, even through my watering eyes.

It was one of those moments where the clarity and tenuousness of a situation can't be confused. It was defining and completely irreversible, what I was feeling, and I wondered how on earth some moments could hold so much more significance than others.

It hit me with all the force of a freight train just how possible it could be that my moments of life could be numbered.

Every breath was precious; every heartbeat, and I was afraid that mine were going to cease way too prematurely.

The gut-wrenching emotions felt like they were twisting me in two, and I felt myself stiffening as I bent reflexively inwards to alleviate the tension.

I made a conscious effort to calm my breaths, and although it was painful, I managed to put a tremulous stop to the wheezing sound I was making. I closed my eyes to get my bearings again, blocking out the concerned faces of the nurses and my father. I couldn't see my brothers because of the people around me, but I raised my hand tiredly to grip my father's, the tears still wet on my face as I was again, poked and prodded.

This just wasn't fair. Why me?

When was it going to end?

##

I must have cried myself into exhaustion and sleep, because the next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes to darkness.

Freaked out by the loss of time and memories, mingling sleep with the emotion still weighing down my chest, I couldn't help but let out a strangled sob. I was so focused on the darkness and fear in my own mind, that I didn't register the absence of pain until the white heat flared in my bad side. Punching a mattress with a swollen arm is never a good idea.

Hissing through my teeth, nearly choking on the sharp inhalation, I felt an arm on my left rub my shoulder as a small light flickered on, the illumination flickering into my peripheral vision as the agony slowly faded.

My father's face swam into view above me, lower half masked, and he ran his hand tenderly along my jaw; the sanitary gloves uncomfortable against my skin.

It was silly and sentimental and really not sensible in the least, but right then all I really wanted and above all needed was to feel the calluses of my father's hands, to not have the sharp scent of sanitiser and clean paper in my nose. I craved it like nothing else. It was like an itch I couldn't scratch.

I was distracted a little from that by the sound of his voice through my consciousness and zoned back into reality in time to catch the tail end of Dad's sentence.

"…time." His eyes were tight but filled with compassion as he spoke, and I wanted to bury myself into his embrace again and never come out. I hated this.

"Hmm?" I grunted, rubbing my sleep-gritted eyes and peering at him through the murk in my sleep-fogged, terror-filled brain. "Sorry?"

He smiled at me; pulling my beanie further down on my head. I'd almost forgotten I had almost no hair. Did I even _have_ any after lying on it for over two weeks? I was too tired to find the energy required to search for the answer to that.

Distraction from that train of thought was diverted back to Dad as he repeated his question. "How are you feeling, son? You've slept for a long time."

I gave a half-shrug, knowing the importance of answering truthfully in relation to my medical condition, but not actually willing to go into it at all. I found I was now apathetic to the entire situation, despite my worry about my own impending decline, and it was really much better than the blind terror and panic from before, at least in my eyes.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't totally ignorant of it. I mean, no-one would be able to forget in a hurry how under the weather they were feeling, but it was a coping mechanism of sorts; pushing the knowledge of something to the back of their mind until they're ready to deal with it. If a thing like this was ever really able to be dealt with. All of the hippy, sappy crap about talking about feelings and issues didn't seem to be helping me much lately. All I really seemed to be doing was descending into tears.

I was struggling even with breathing right now; I didn't even want to be awake, but another thought pushed rather rudely through the wall I was trying to construct in order to sleep, and it was a little more current, if not as equally important as my feigned situational ignorance.

"How long?" I croaked, in order to stall it. Well this didn't feel like déjà vu at all. All I remembered was crying my heart out in front of my brothers.

Dad's voice was weary and gentle as he smiled at me sadly. He continued stroking my forehead as he spoke, and I closed my eyes as I leaned into his touch.

"They had to sedate you, John. The stress isn't good for your body right now. You might feel like you're shaking the infection, but it's a lot more complicated than that, and you the possibility of you getting to the point of exhaustion isn't really the best thing to be leaving to chance." Four hours was something. At least I was getting sleep. Even if it mostly appeared to be a drugged one.

I didn't like the idea of yet more drugs being pumped into me, when I hadn't even really wanted the actual treatment in the very first place. I was beginning to think that this shit wasn't even worth it. I was getting all this medication and rest and care, and I was just going nowhere. I didn't like the way this appeared to be going. And if that sounded like a contradiction, then so what?

I knew that my mind was beginning to go around in circles; my thought processes were chasing each other incessantly around in my head, and I was scared and exhausted, but in truth there wasn't all that much I could do about it. The variety of strong drugs and biomedicines I knew were still flooding my system weren't really doing me any favours in the Clear and Coherent Thoughts department, but I knew that they were necessary to prevent me from writhing in pain. I really hated feeling so lousy.

My face wasn't swollen at the moment from the steriods used to combat the migraines and muscle aches from the chemo, but at the same time, my body was quite thin, the skin of my hands were dry; the nails brittle, and I had an unhealthy sallow colouring to my skin that was caused by my decreased exposure to sunlight. The painkillers made my brain clouded, and that combined with the underlying illness and the weariness from fighting the bloody thing in the first place more or less made me feel like nothing more than a useless lump. It was not a good feeling.

I hadn't gotten out of bed in weeks, and I knew that that would be something else to add to my plate, seeing as I hadn't been able to do my therapy exercises for the sciatic compression injury at all during that time. I was surprised my back hadn't already seized up, but I guessed that with the painkillers, it didn't really matter.

Dad's hand was tight on my left, and he sat there, waiting, running his free hand over my forehead, like he had when I was a little boy, sensing that I wanted to say something, but wasn't willing to start quite yet. I lay staring at the dark ceiling; my clouded head soaking in the silence with relish, not willing to break it. But it appeared that in defiance, my mind was buzzing.

Despite the promise I had made to myself to leave Virgil alone, the emotional part of me seemed to have been searching for a loophole while I had slept in order to actually work out if my brother was really as okay as he had said he was. I wondered where he and the others had gone, and how much time had passed, but at the same time, my mouth was almost working independently of my brain as the words spilled out of their own accord.

"Dad? How is Virgil, really? Don't lie to me, please…" I didn't think if I could stand him trying to protect me right now. Some things just can't wait.

I could see even in the dim light that he had been contemplating it. I was glad that he had decided to respect what I wanted though.

"Like he said, John; it's tough. He's got the knowledge of what he had to do, both from the course with Brains and the first aid, as well as from your grandfather, but he's struggling with the needle-sticks. It's difficult to do. Even when he was on the Humatrope injections it was a different thing entirely."

I nodded. Because Virgil was the shortest out of all of us; beneath the fifty-percentile height for his age, and had been for most of his life, our family paediatrician had recommended he go on a two-year supplement course when he was thirteen to give him a little extra height and balance out his hormone levels. It had comprised of a single pen injection at night, which probably would have prepared him for the insulin in some way, but then there was a difference between doing one jab a day, and doing half a dozen finger sticks as well as the four or more main injections he would need for his insulin.

I wouldn't be coping, that was for sure. I wasn't even coping with my current state of pincushion.

I nodded, finally content that I knew the important bits about Virgil. I'd fill myself in properly when I could.

Next on my list: something that had occurred to me when Brains had walked in. The 'birds.

Dad's eyes darkened as soon as the words passed my lips, whispered and encoded as they were. I could tell that some of his initial misgivings had come back into the equation, especially in light of Virgil's diagnosis, but I stood by what I had decided just after I had undergone the staging tests.

I still wanted IR to continue to run.

True, there would have to be more of a delay because of Virgil needing to adapt, but at the same time, there wasn't any reason why the outfit couldn't operate to some extent. Gordon _was_ still a trainee, really, but having both listened and watched how he'd handled himself on rescues in the months and weeks leading up to the events of Spring Break, I figured that I would throw my hat in the ring and say that Gordon was well and truly ready to become a full operative. With Scott and Dad full members, 'One and 'Two would be manned, and there was nothing to say that Virgil couldn't man base.

I wasn't sure if Dad had even realised how having diabetes was going to affect Virgil's performance as a member of the business. Grandpa had had the disease since before Dad had been born, and he had gotten into such a rhythm of his own care that it barely affected his life, outwardly at least; letting him work on the farm's machinery with no outward trouble at all. I knew that he had had to take it easy on days where things were out of balance, but he had always had help around the farm from the neighbours and the sons of his friends in town -and us in later years- when he hadn't been confident enough to handle the risks himself.

It might have sounded like I was selling my father short, and then my brother by extension, but I knew that there were significant risks involved with how diabetics could be affected by stress. I had read up on the hotel room internet about diabetics in emergency response organisations, and in truth, it wasn't a frequent occurrence.

The combination of environmental factors on how a diabetic's blood sugar behaves includes heat, stress and adrenaline levels, as well as the need to have regular meals and time to check his or her levels when needed.

I had no doubt that my father would have ideas on how to adjust things so Virgil could still be an active part of the organisation; a back-up plan or roster of some sort to ensure that he could swap out for a break at a moment's notice, but I couldn't help but wonder if things would be quite as simple as that.

The emotional impact on my brother would be of the first and foremost importance.

Virgil was more or less a pragmatic and sensible guy, but he also had a temper that could rival Alan's or Scott's were it to be riled, and insinuating even innocently and in care for his health that he might not be able to fly his 'Bird wouldn't sit well.

It was a delicate situation, but it wasn't one that we could really stand to discuss at the moment.

What we needed was to get back to the island and finish getting the machines repaired. I knew that some of it had been done while we'd been home those first few weeks. I'd helped with the ideas for the redesign of 'Five's detection shield between naps and throwing up, and 'Two's guidance processor had been restored and re-installed for use, but we still had a while to go before we were ready to go back into any sort of active operation.

I knew that even the belief that my father had in his dream had wavered since everything had happened. We actually needed to get back into a whole, coherent unit before anything could truly come to fruition, but as yet, I still had no idea on how to do that, or even assist my family in helping to get there. I doubted they did either, because even with their brains working at one-hundred per-cent capacity, we still weren't there.

It was going to take time, and it appeared that time was the last thing we had.


	34. Endless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

I'd been so lost in my contemplation, that I'd gone and forgotten the original query I'd put to my father; the state of our family business itself.

He'd obviously been thinking about how he was going to answer while I'd been musing, because the time it had taken for me to go through my muddled reasoning and logic was much longer than it usually would be. It had most likely allowed him to be able to compose himself a little more, which was good, because I knew how much this situation was affecting him, but I was at a loss at how to help.

I had hoped that either Grandma or Scott were having better luck, but judging from the way Scott had busted up his hand, I wasn't so sure anymore.

The sound of Dad clearing his throat was dual in purpose, both letting my father speak clearly, and also allowing me to know that he wanted to talk. It almost overrode the sounds of the machines that I was still attached to, and now that I was focused on them with whatever part of my mind it was that recorded that sort of thing, I was finding they were rather annoying.

My eyes flickered up to his face again, still heavy with sleep in the darkness of the room, and blurry without my glasses, but at the same time, I still knew that he wore his ever-present worry-lines.

His eyes were gentle and affectionate, but I could see the consternation that still lurked behind them. I was glad to know that it was more out of concern for IR than me right now, although that worry for me and Virgil was still lingering despite the way I knew that both of us were appearing to be getting somewhat better over the last day or so. I was breathing much easier in any case, when compared to how I had been directly after the fever had broken, and that in itself was an encouraging sign in my mind.

My father's feelings were hidden well, and the fact that I was able to see them was only because I was so adept at detecting them in the first place. My father was much better in that respect, more so than the Worry Wart and Mister Medic anyway. I really didn't think I could deal with that outward sympathy right now, however much it was meant with good intentions.

I'd somewhat inadvertently answered one of my own previous, slightly less pressing questions from before, because the darkness of the room certainly gave evidence as to why my brothers were not in the room. As there was no light coming from the shuttered window, I therefore gathered they were almost certainly asleep, even if they weren't actually in proper beds. I knew my brothers too well.

This waking-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night thing was really getting old though. My sleep patterns were already pretty screwed, seeing as I was waking up at such irregular times, but once I managed to get out of here, they would be even more so.

My thoughts were trying to slip away from me again and I'd become distracted, because my father's face had crumpled into a frown while I'd not been paying attention. I didn't much like that I was the cause of it. When he saw that I was focused on him again, his eyes crinkled with a smile at something in my expression, and I knew the corner of his mouth was tipping upwards the way Scott's did when he was amused about something. I didn't need to be able to see through the mask across his face to know that one.

"What?" I hitched a little at the thick feeling in my throat, but I ignored it. "What are you grinning at?"

Dad just shook his head and smoothed the blankets down. "Nothing son."

 _Uh-huh._ I could imagine what 'nothing' was, but I didn't mind, not really. I was a too distracted by other things to care.

I'd finally relocated my brain from whatever dark corner of my skull it had decided to reside in, and figured that it was really time to try and get an answer, before I zoned out for the umpteenth time.

The thought-jumps I was experiencing lately were giving me the irrits, and everything was just moving way too slowly for me. It felt like I had been here forever, but only wanting to sleep just made it worse.

Dad's voice was tight as he spoke, and I knew how much he was warring with himself on how he was going to address the issue, but he swallowed and finally, I heard the truth of the matter.

Oddly enough, when Dad said that he was shutting IR down for the foreseeable future, I wasn't all that surprised. We'd never actually gotten his full answer from his re-consideration following that meeting in the lounge back at home; the arrival of Dr. Kingston and the ensuing discovery of the chest mass and Virgil's diagnosis had completely side-tracked our attention from that issue. Two of his children were seriously, as well as chronically ill, and there was no way any of us were at all close to being able to effect a proper rescue.

It felt like I was rehashing it all in my head too much, but at the same time, it was probably better for me to be able to go through the situation in that much detail, for me to properly absorb it, and not feel like I was missing something, again.

My father was looking at me like he expected more questions, or some adverse reaction to his decision, but the truth was that I was just so tired of everything. The worry, the nightmares, seeing my family worry so much and not being able to do anything about it... Just being sick in the first place, and all the shit that came with it. I was just over it. I wanted out.

I suddenly felt unbearably tired, and it was really nothing to do with the state of my body. It was inside me, resting heavy in my gut and bringing my emotions to the forefront of my mind. I'd felt this feeling many times before, and I really didn't like it. It was different to the heart-wrenching fear; the terror of what was happening to me. It was a deep-seated weariness, a depression almost, that I really disliked. It reminded me too much of those darker moments, and I didn't want to face them.

I closed my eyes, and wished for sleep again, but I knew that I needed to answer my father, to acknowledge that I had heard what he'd said, that really, I was okay with it. I just didn't have the energy to expend on worrying about those things right now. I was just too damn tired.

I opened my eyes again wearily to slowly nod at Dad, and I was glad to realise that he had already seen my acceptance and had done the same thing himself. I could see relief in his expression as well; that he'd clearly spoken to my brothers beforehand, and I was pleased that I knew that he didn't need to worry about it anymore. It was quite freeing.

There was another, slightly more pressing matter though, and it had been lingering on the edges of my mind since the Hackenbackers and the Kyranos had visited. It was assumption on my part really, but at the same time I knew that that was the best way for it to be handled. By the best.

I thought I'd better ask though; there are cases where you can sometimes be wrong. It was good in the way that I used it to pull me out of my funk, before I got too lost in the darkness, but at the same time, it could have repercussions for me later. I grimaced. That was never a fun experience.

"How are Penny and Parker?" I asked quietly. I assumed my room was clean of bugs and such, but one could never be too careful. Being my father's son, and in such a serious condition, I was sure that Dad would be dealing with the media fairly extensively.

Luckily, my dad seemed to understand exactly what I was getting at. He rubbed his neck as he tried to give me my answer without giving away clues that an outsider would be able to detect.

"They're good John, worried about you, but they've been busy working on that legal situation with the company for me. Things are going as well as they can be. He'll not be bothering us again."

Okay. I took that to mean that the Hood wouldn't be getting out of prison anytime soon then. Good old Penelope. She'd have dealt with that flawlessly. I had a feeling that Sir Jeremy would have also been involved with the proceedings. He was good like that.

I should have felt a greater sense of relief over the idea that the Hood wouldn't be able to get close to us anytime soon, but again, that apathy was nestled in my chest, and I really wasn't worried about the guy, to say the truth. I just knew that my family was safe from that particular threat, and to me, that was all that counted.

I expected Dad to push with that particular bit of clarification, for him to ask me how I was taking it, but I guess that he had somehow managed to gauge what I was feeling about things. He had seen this in me before. It was inevitable that I would be feeling this way at times; the situation I found myself in was definitely not normal.

I didn't want to talk, and my father seemed to understand that. It was the middle of the night, after all, and despite the fact I'd just woken up, I could feel myself tumbling rapidly towards sleep again. Dad looked exhausted himself, so I was quite content for myself to slip again into oblivion. I wanted to rest so I could try to get better, and at the same time, the numbness of sleep was better when it came to not wanting to think about things, especially when my mood was as dark as it was. I hated it.

I was holding out hope, but I'd see how I felt in the morning.

##

In the morning, I felt like shit.

I'd woken up feeling sort of okay, considering the circumstances, and stupidly, I'd thought that perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.

It was only about ten in the morning, and I was drowsing after my last self-medicated dose from the new PCA unit I was attached to, trying to fight off the nausea I was experiencing from my pounding headache.

I'd jinxed myself.

Dad had taken Alan back to the farmstead for the school lessons he was taking with Fermat and Tin-Tin, so things were very quiet. Gordon and Scott were watching a comedy of some description on the TV in the corner, the volume apparently on mute, as I couldn't hear anything but the beeping of the machines I was still hooked up with.

I forcibly inched my eyes open against the pounding in my head, as I heard yet another empty water bottle hit the edge of the waste basket; the second in the past hour.

 _Virgil_.

He'd apparently been battling a high blood sugar for most of the previous day, and all of the night, and I had found myself concerned about him when he'd informed me that he'd been put on a saline drip overnight for re-hydration. My father had assured me that he was doing okay; that the doctors were watching him and that Virgil was keeping a careful eye on his readings, but at the same time, I was worried.

I closed my eyes again against the migraine, despite the dimmed lights, but I couldn't help but sympathise with the feelings behind the sigh Scott let out as Virgil crossed the room not ten minutes later, heading out the door. Another bathroom trip.

"Leave him alone Scott." I muttered raspily. I was thinking the same thing, but whatever.

I could practically hear his pout, and definitely heard Gordon's snicker as both registered what I meant.

"Right, Johnny. Like you're not thinking the same."

Guilty as charged.

The room lapsed back into silence at that, but I couldn't ignore the thumping in my head for much longer. I was either going to have to fall asleep, or press the PCA for the third time until the medication schedule was reset. I didn't want to do that yet, because it would be another three hours until I'd be allowed another dose.

I heard Virgil return, and a muttered conversation between him and Scott held my attention for a brief moment, but then I finally began to doze off.

Let's just say I was rather peeved when I was interrupted.

A couple of nurses came in, and I actually heard their footsteps through my almost-sleep, but then I realised that their intention was to wake me up, and man, I was not happy with that idea.

I was really tempted to pull the covers over my head and tell them quite baldly to fuck off and leave me be, but I knew that sick or not, my father would have something to say about the results of that. I was therefore forced to rouse myself at the woman's call, and otherwise submit to whatever the hell she wanted.

Again, I'd jinxed myself.

Somehow, despite the fact that just about every breath was a struggle, and I currently had a chest-full of disgusting green slime, I'd somehow managed to forget that I would have been having some sort of treatment to help me shift the mess that was currently weighing down my lungs.

It was a pretty stupid oversight, because it made it just that bit more of an unpleasant surprise, when the orderlies informed me what I was going to be doing for the next twenty minutes.

I mean, the first bit was relatively easy, considering all I had to do was lie comfortably and let the medicated steam flow through the mask and into my lungs, but then add the bit that came after the liquid in the canister had evaporated, and I was seriously wishing I was doing anything else.

It tasted disgusting, and there was nothing I could do but grit my teeth and bear the agonising coughing and the spasms of pain that shook through me as I hacked up the little of my lungs still working to capacity, stretching my sore side and making my splitting headache just that much worse. The orderlies were rubbing both my back and sternum as I tipped my head over the emesis basin I held in a tight-knuckled hand, murmuring reassurances that I barely heard. They had no idea how much this hurt. It would be repeated every four hours or so, now that I was able to do it more effectively than what had been so far.

There were tears in my eyes as the torture ceased, and my mood was ten times worse than before.

It wouldn't have been so bad if they'd left me alone and let my brothers come back in, but no; they had to prolong my suffering, and decide that it would be a good idea to remove the NG tube while they were at it.

Despite me not actually remembering it happening, I'd apparently been having the occasional liquid meal between the regular tube feedings, and the doctor attending me had figured that he'd give me the chance to try a few full days of broths and soups before moving me onto solids.

The feeling of having a tube pulled out of your gut through your nose is not the most pleasant of sensations.

I refuse to go and recall _that_ in full detail, but believe me; it involved stomach acid, a lot of sore muscles, and a little bit of blood, not to mention a healthy appreciation for the ability to properly ingest my food in the normal, chewing-and-swallowing kind of way.

They'd done it as quickly and painlessly as possible, I'd give them that, but the back of my throat was raw, my nose was sore and stinging from the acid I'd expelled from my nostrils as I'd vomited, and I still felt rather sick from my migraine. It sucked.

It was really no wonder I fell asleep not long after.

Thank God that was over.


	35. Corpus in Spiritu, Spera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Any medical errors are mine, and mine alone, because I am not a doctor.

At first thought one might think the observation that I was in a state of complete misery a bit of an over-exaggeration, but there's a difference between being blissed out on drugs and unaware, and living through both the aftermath of surgery, and the ensuing weaning away from one's pain meds.

I'd been told that the incisions from the surgery were healing nicely; without any visible infection, but on the flip side of that, the itching and burning sensation they were giving off was almost unbearable. I was still hacking up yellow-green phlegm at the most inopportune of times, and that in turn affected the tenderness of the scars and my ribs, due to the skin stretching beneath the sutures whenever I moved my arm or abdomen too sharply.

I had been put onto the PCA unit, so I did have some control over my own pain management, but at the same time, it came as a sort of one-sided improvement when I realised because of that, the dosage of medication I was dependent upon was therefore being decreased. It made for a very unhappy me, let's just say that.

There were blood tests and examinations undertaken twice-daily, as well as trips down to the radiology wing for imaging to be taken of my abdominal region; monitoring the healing from the deep-tissue incision, as well as measuring the level of swelling that still lingered in the underside of my upper arm and across the top of my shoulder.

It wasn't exactly dangerous, the lymphoedema, but it could've hindered the sealing of the sutures if it produced too much fluid, so that was yet another thing they were keeping an eye on.

I was being good and taking the occupational therapist's advice about my range of motion seriously, but it was only with conscious intention that I moved the shoulder properly at all; the rest of the time I kept it clamped to my side in an attempt to relieve the deep-seated ache that still sat in the side of my chest.

My comprehension of things was getting all that much clearer the longer I was able to stay awake. It was half to my surprise that I had lost a further five days between the periods of sleeping, waking up and forgetting-I'd-woken, taking my period of hospitalisation up to the three-week mark by the time they'd taken the NG tube out.

But when I'd taken the time to consider that again, I'd realised that it was probably better in the long run because it meant (in my mind at least), that I was afforded a shorter stay in the hospital while I waited for the pneumonia to clear up.

I was hoping that I'd be discharged soon. There was nothing more I wanted to be in my own bed, at the homestead where I'd grown up. Hopefully, this time I'd be able to climb the stairs to get there.

Between the examinations and the wishing and hoping, I was also taking anything I could get my hands on to reduce the tedium of being stuck in that hospital room. I'd had Gordon bring a selection of my old science-fiction novels in for me, so it even slightly felt like I had something to do between the periods in which I slept, but it was really grating on my nerves; all the time spent in inactivity. My stamina was nowhere near what it had been, even before I had begun to tumble down the slippery slope to my relapse.

It was driving me mad.

All of the others were back at the farmhouse, with varying reasons that prevented them from staying all afternoon. I was glad for that. The removal of the NG tube had significantly irritated my stomach lining, and I really didn't need an audience as I spilled my guts.

I knew that Virgil and Gordon, being in their first and second-last years of their college degrees respectively, were hard at work catching up on the assignments that they'd neglected while I'd been sick.

Gordon in particular was having to work rather hard, being on a different semester schedule to Virgil because he was enrolled at Deakin University, which enabled him to be closer in time to his tutors in Australia. Virgil was in a little less of a situation, owing to the fact that the majority of the practical work requirements for his engineering course were overseen by both Dad and Brains, but at the same time, his second-to-last assessment for the spring term was a report that demanded a specific level of research in order for him to complete it.

The two of them had applied for what was classed as a special consideration for extension of their assessment deadlines, but they were also still expected to put in as much effort as they could. However, knowing my younger brothers as I did, I knew that they would want to succeed far beyond their capabilities, even with the stress that the almost-six weeks since my diagnosis had imposed on them.

Alan too, was immersed in his studies under the tutelage of Brains and Onaha, who had taught Tin-Tin her lessons up until she had begun high school, along with Fermat, who was now admittedly rather more ahead of Tin-Tin or Alan, despite the fact he was a year younger than them.

Scott, I had no idea of where he'd be. He'd been around for another hour after the kids had left, and it appeared that he was content to read one of his own books while I was on my second breathing treatment for the day, but then, with barely any warning at all, he'd blurted something about going to see Brains, and had sped out of my room with barely a pause to snatch up his wallet from he'd dumped it on the nightstand.

I'd looked at Dad in worried surprise, because I hadn't seen Scott behave that erratically for a very long time; the red in his cheeks and on his ears was more a warning more than anything else, but he had only shaken his head, and I had dropped the subject, albeit reluctantly.

Whatever was worrying Scott was quite clearly something Dad thought that my brother would have to figure out himself.

Virgil was another brother that was concerning me. To all appearances he seemed to be coping with the changes to his daily routine remarkably well, considering quite how obsessively-compulsive he was about certain situations. I was surprised with how well my brother managed to separate his rescue self from his personal habits, and vice-versa; compartmentalising things in order to operate with optimum efficiency.

For instance, he had no problems whatsoever in getting dirty and muddy on a rescue, such as the refinery fire from over a month ago, but when he was at home and out of 'rescue-mode', Virgil was completely overly-strict with anything resembling mess in his own projects or in daily activities, with nary a splash of paint or oil to be seen anywhere on his person, even while he was in the middle of an elaborate piece.

It was baffling.

However, the thing that confused me the most was exactly how unconcerned Virgil seemed to be about the entire situation.

I knew that he'd assured me that he was going okay, but still, my big-brother senses were tingling, and as corny as that sounded, I figured that an extra pair of eyes on him wouldn't go amiss.

With the mild case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder that Virgil had developed around thirteen years of age, I wondered how exactly he was coping with the intricacies of dealing with his new illness. The precision and sharpness of eye that was needed to accurately address the balancing act orchestrated between carbs and insulin, as well as the strict regimen of exercise and diet that Virgil needed to follow made me wonder exactly how he was affected by it, knowing how he had a tendency to obsess over numbers and cleanliness the way he did at times.

It wasn't uncommon to hear of diabetics developing OCD a few years after diagnosis, so with him already having that issue to deal with, I did wonder if Virgil was truly as okay as he was telling everyone. Who knew what went on in the bathroom when he was testing and injecting? Not us, that was for sure.

I'd watched him the rest of the morning, and his blood sugar had seemed to be lowering, as proved by the relieved smile on his face, and the loosening of the corners of his mouth and relaxing of his shoulders when he'd put down the case with his testing supplies on the table near the sofa.

I wondered that if perhaps in my worry over my own illness, I was becoming a little paranoid. He certainly seemed to be doing okay, but I knew only too well how my brothers were able to hide things.

He was probably feeling as smothered as I was though; what with everyone watching his every move, but at the same time, I could see that he too was feeding off the feelings of comfort that came from being surrounded by brothers and parent, and I took comfort in that in turn. It meant that he wasn't adverse to accepting support should he find he needed it. My brothers needed to know that more than anything.

But right now, I needed to pay attention to me.

I grunted, as out of range of my grabby, drug-uncoordinated, _ow-overextension_ hands, the slim-bound, hardback novel took a nosedive off the edge of the bed from where it had been balanced precariously on the side of the mattress.

It landed with a morose, sharp-sounding _thwack_ as it hit the blue linoleum, and I let out a bit of a dissatisfied grumble as I realised that it was probably getting germs all over it.

I didn't think there was any chance of me getting it back, however scrupulously clean the floor might have been, because of the way that Dad, in his seat on the wrong side of the bed (way out of range of catching it from there, if one was wondering, because even his reflexes aren't that good), narrowed his brows told me exactly how right I was on that fact.

And yeah, they might well have lost the protective gear that covered their clothing, but the damned plastic masks were still well and truly in place when my family came in to visit, and damn I hated not being able to see their faces.

The whole reason why the novel had been set aside so hurriedly in the first place came roaring back into my comprehension then, and the temporary despair over the almost-certain loss was engulfed by the continued re-emergence of my first near-solid meal in almost a month.

Yep, my book was infinitely more important than the burning in my throat and nostrils.

I coughed a little, glad to again realise that the ache in my chest was finally becoming bearable, along with the reduction of the sputum in my lungs, and gratefully accepted the tissue Dad offered me to wipe my nose, feeling like something the dog had dragged in.

On second thoughts, Midgie wouldn't even have come near something that looked as crappy as I had over the last few days, and I felt even worse.

Dad patted me on the shoulder as he passed me my water glass, and I eyed my book, now set on the table, as he re-immersed himself in the contents of his laptop.

He'd finally gotten back on top of his Tracy Aeronautics work with all the time I'd spent sleeping. The time he'd spent at my bedside was draining him, I could see that, but at least his energies were split between both me and the contracts he was trying to form during the day. It ensured that he was exhausted enough to actually sleep at night, and wasn't sitting up trying to deal with everything at once. Not like last time.

During my first bout with my disease, Dad had just been up until all hours of the morning, trying to scrape together as much money as he could so we had enough to both pay for my treatments, and to be able to keep the lot of us clothed, fed and watered. We had both Mom and Dad's insurance funds, and Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Grant had helped where they could, but it still left us with not many coins to rub together when it came to my brothers' extracurricular activities.

It was a blessing at least that Scott'd had the job stocking shelves at the local supermarket, and added as much of his wages as Dad would allow towards our weekly expenses, but at the same time, he was urged to put the majority of it into his college fund.

Dad had refused to touch what he and Mom had been putting away each year for me and my brothers, and fair enough, but I still couldn't help but feel guilty whenever I'd heard Alan ask Dad why he couldn't go on his first-grade camping trip, or why Gordon couldn't have that build-it-yourself model boat for his eleventh birthday. Virgil, at least had been old enough to understand why he couldn't go to the pre-term music camp in the weeks before he was due to start the seventh grade, or be able to have the terribly-needed tune-up for the old upright piano, but it still hurt to see my brothers missing out on the things they wanted because of me.

It led back to the feelings of uselessness that kept hitting me at my most vulnerable moments; in the middle of the night when the room was dark, and I was alone and trapped in nightmares that I couldn't shake. It was while my body was healing, that my mind continued to decline to the point where I couldn't let anyone tell me anything without Dad being next to me.

I think I'd been worrying Dad with how subdued I had become. Granted, I was sick and tired, and I was usually pretty quiet as a matter of personality, but at the same time, I guessed that the mask of impenetrability I usually wore had been chipped away, and he could see more in my expressions than what I usually communicated.

If there was one thing that got to me while I was hospitalised, it was the repeated episodes of depression and fear that felt like someone was dropping weighted stones into my stomach and adding viscous slime to make them rot there.

Dad'd broached the topic with me before, back on the island while I was in one of my more aware moments; the suggestion that I should see a therapist in order to talk about the emotions I was feeling. It was either that, or at least that I join a support group for the feeling of not-being-alone and therefore the accompanying, companionate understanding of what I was going through. But as I had when I was fifteen and needed to keep at least some of my dignity, I had refused.

I'd been talking to my friend Sherry since I'd been diagnosed as having relapsed, over the comm. link both on Tracy Island and through my laptop, so I wasn't completely devoid of non-family members to talk to, but at the same time, I understood what Dad had meant.

I'd met her when I was sixteen and we'd both just started at the advanced placement course at Harvard, and she was as close to a sister as I would ever get. And more than anyone else, other than my brothers, she understood what I experienced, both when I was fifteen, and at the present time.

Not long after I'd met her, she'd lost the sight in one eye after an explosion at her after-school job. She now only had seventy-five per-cent vision in her sole working, short-sighted eye, and to a certain extent, she knew just how much the current circumstances were affecting me, because of how scared and terrified as she had been during her recovery time.

I felt absolutely terrible though, putting that burden of listening to me on her, and what made it worse was that, because of how ill I'd been, I'd been unable to make good on my promise to be 'Maid' of Honour at her wedding to her fiancé of three years.

The event was to be in a week by that day's count, and there was no way I was going to be either recovered or fit enough to attend without numerous machines and medications, and there was no way I'd ruin her day like that for her. She was my best friend, and I couldn't even be at her wedding!

She understood when I'd spoken to her over the 'phone earlier that morning, but I'd felt physically sick because of the way that the stupid cancer was ruining everything in my life.

Thinking about it wouldn't stop the feelings of fear, and trying not to think about it just served to make me infinitely more depressed that I already had been, on top of missing Scott's twenty-fifth birthday, and the looming threat of my ever-spreading cancer and its treatments. It was just a vicious circle, and I hated it.

Perhaps there was some merit in taking Dad's well-intentioned advice to heart once in a while.

It was probably a little bit random a thought to have, and to actually follow it through to conclusion even more so, but I'd had a lot of time to think in between my family's visits and the time sleeping off meds, and most of it had been spent tracing back to exactly when it was I had started feeling so run down. I didn't mean about the infection, despite the fact that it was really enough to make anyone sick (stupid joke, yes, I know), but ultimately about my relapse in the first place.

I'd actually had traces of consideration about it while I was in the middle of the salvage therapy, but had been too sick to adequately backtrack.

I wasn't completely sure if it was truly the cause, but I distinctly remembered the awful flu I'd managed to contract just before Gordon's eighteenth birthday celebrations back in February.

Dad had obviously automated the station to enable all of us to be able to be there for Gordon's party, and I'd come down from 'Five on the twelfth, but on a quick trip to the mainland to pick up his gift, I'd caught the virus, which had led to me being miserable in bed for the next two days, and even then I'd had to resolutely drag myself out of my room in order to be there for my brother's special day.

The reason I'd come to the conclusion that that was when the showing of my symptoms had begun was because I hadn't been that ill since the cold both Scott and I had caught off Virgil, just after I'd gone into remission the first time.

That in turn was actually caused by Gordon himself; walking home from the pool in the rain. My immune system had still been pretty crappy after my last cycle of chemo had come to an end, and that in itself was my evidence as to the starting point the events that had led me to my current situation.

Really, if I had realised that at the time, things could have been resolved just that much faster, and I wouldn't be anywhere near my current predicament.

I glared at my book, mocking me from the spot where Dad had placed it when he'd picked it off the floor, wanting to read it so badly, but unwilling to compromise my health again. It sucked that I had to take such precautions over something as simple as a novel, but I knew that it was something I just had to deal with, under the circumstances.

I reached out with my good hand to snag the brand-new iPod and earphones that I'd asked Alan to grab from my duffle bag the other day. It had still been sitting on my bedroom floor where Gordon had left it the night we'd landed, seeing as the only thing that had been extracted from it was the medications I'd been taking; having presumably been needed for the ER doctors to accurately diagnose my infection. Scott had used my laptop to download the music I'd had stored onto the device, seeing as my old one was still somewhere up on Thunderbird Five.

I was ever so thankful I hadn't had my computer up there; having taken advantage of the desktop sharing interface that 'Five boasted, as all the research for my books and my recreation items were on the station's hard drive, as well as the database for International Rescue. I had to have something to do up there in my downtime, after all!

Plugging the buds in my ears, grateful that the migraine from earlier in the day had finally gone and pissed off out of my head, I closed my eyes and tried to catch a little more sleep.

##

Alan was being a bit of a pain, if I was to be telling the truth. He'd decided that he wanted to hang out with me, which was touching and all, but I was obviously a lot more awake than I'd been for a while, and while sleeping and drowsing was annoying and all, it also gave me a bit of insulation for overly-chatty little brothers who just don't have an 'off' command.

I loved Alan, I really did; stubbornness and petulance, and teenage-boy woe-is-me notwithstanding. He was extremely clever, with an eye for detail and the curiosity to know exactly how things worked. He was also hot-headed and brash and over-eager and a little rude at times, with a fascination for speed that worried me. Like all of the rest of our family, that I knew with certainty was something we all shared.

But by God, could that kid talk.

It was not long before dinner, and we were alone in the room while the others were down in the cafeteria, getting coffee and deciding what they were having for their evening meal. I'd seen Grandma's displeased look when Dad mentioned it, and I had just the slightest suspicion that in this particular case, Dad and my brothers both were going to find their wants for a quick, easy meal trumped. My grandmother was awesome, and no-one got in her way when she was on a mission, even her son.

Alan was rabbiting on about how he'd decided that he wanted to go on the motor-cross team when he headed back to school again (obviously he'd gotten bored of living in the farmhouse, I knew I had at times), whenever that would be. I'd felt a flash of panic at the idea of my little brother participating in _that_ particular extracurricular activity, but then I grinned at Alan's wonder about whether Wharton Academy actually offered shop classes to sophomore students, because Virgil had started that when he was fifteen hadn't he?, and what kind of work would that involve?

Through my amusement at my brother's goldfish attention span, I wondered if Dad and Scott knew about it at all. I guessed not, by the way that Alan was still so enthused about it.

I was brought back from my imagining of the look on Scott's face, to Alan's voice asking me, in rather a serious tone for my littlest brother, _When do you think Dad will actually let me start training on the 'Birds?_

It was said in a whisper, that last sentence, because yeah; Alan was irresponsible and reckless and more than a bit stubborn, but even he knew that International Rescue needed to be kept secret.

I had to admit, I was a little thrown at that question. Didn't he know that we were on hiatus? Hadn't Dad said anything? If that were true, then it was no wonder that our family had had the issues we had with the kid over the past six months. We'd never told him anything really.

But then I looked at Alan's face, and I realised that there was a different sort of meaning behind that query, aside from the obvious.

It annoyed me a little, because if I was at peak condition the real meaning behind Alan's question wouldn't have taken me half so long to get, but I pushed that aside to give my brother my full attention.

"When you can show you're competent with the craft, Al. I know that you've flown 'One, 'Two and 'Four, but I know that your landings were far from perfect. There's a difference between knowing where the buttons are and getting full marks on the simulators, and knowing the laws of flight and understanding the physics and mathematics that go with how they move."

At Alan's slightly blank look, I elaborated.

"You told me that you've been doing Pythagoras' Theorem in mathematics, yes?" I recalled, trying to remember exactly what it was that Alan had told me over the 'phone a week before Spring Break. "His theories are the mere basis of what you need to study to become competent on the 'Birds. Most of us have the advantage of having been through school before IR was formed, and you know that Gordon and Virgil are still studying, Al. I don't think Dad'll let you even begin training properly before you hit sixteen, that was when Gordy was supposed to start training. Well, he actually did start, but then he had the accident. He's still not a full operative yet, you know."

The recalling of that particular memory sucked; trying to console Gordon when we all thought he wouldn't walk again.

"You'd have to ask Dad. Perhaps he and Virgil could help you out. Even Scott. Actually, now I think about it Scott and Dad'd be the best ones to ask to tutor you, out of all of us. You know they've both been to flight school. They've definitely got the knowledge to help you out Alan. It's just a question of what you'd be willing to put in to get there. Like Dad always says, no…."

"Short-cuts." Alan joined in, looking impressed. "Dad said that to you guys too?"

I nodded, a grin tugging at my mouth. "Duh. You think he made up all those rules and compromises just for you, Sprout? Get real."

Alan looked like he'd had a bit of an epiphany. Wonderful.

From what it appeared, all the crap that'd been going on for the past six months was just miscommunication on Dad's part. Understandable, seeing as it had both been over ten years since he'd been through the teenage stuff with Scott (who, as I'd noted before, was the one Alan was most like out of the lot of us), and back then he'd had Mom as a back-up to soften things if needed. Great. Well hopefully now that was out of the way, we might just get somewhere with him on the communication front.

Alan grinned at me, and I felt an odd sense of accomplishment, one I hadn't felt for quite a while; but if I'd done my part and help bridge a few of the gaps that'd formed in our family unit, well then I was pretty happy.

I reached out to ruffle his hair, and I laughed as Alan started at the feeling of my hand on his head, too distracted by the thought of Dad not only targeting him with the lectures to see my hand coming. He submitted to my rough shove; pushing his head down, before twisting sideways to punch me in the shoulder.

Thankfully, it was on my good side, but I still let out an instinctual jerk at the possibility of pain from my tender arm. I sighed a short breath in relief; both when Alan didn't notice the movement, and when there was no pain resulting.

Hell yeah!

Our short period of horseplay was distracted by a movement from the doorway. A glance up revealed both Dad and Gordon standing there; grinning at the two resident Tracy blondes.

I stuck a childish tongue out at Gordon, who had a combination of _awww_ and _what complete dorks_ on his face. Seeing my look of petulance, he only grinned and flipped me the 'bird under the cover of Dad's left arm.

I'd have returned the favour in kind; consequences be damned, but Alan beat me to the punch. Thankfully, it was only a "screw you", accompanied with a cheeky, smart-ass salute that sailed right over Dad's head. Oh, yes; I remembered that one.

Dad's expression was a little less playful, as much as there was affection was written all over his face, the sap. I realised the reason why when he and my second-youngest brother moved into the room, allowing for a third person to sidle in behind them, followed by Scott and Virgil.

Oh great; a backwards welcoming committee. I wondered what that signified. I wasn't supposed to have been meeting with Dr Kingston until tomorrow afternoon. I hoped it wasn't more bad news. I didn't think I could taken that.

It appeared that I needn't have worried. The doctor's face was a lot less grave this time around, although he was markedly more serious than he had been at my check-ups. Obviously.

I leaned around Alan as I sat up so I could focus on him properly.

"Good evening John." He began, shooing the rest of my family into the room.

I felt a remarkable sense of déjà vu as they took up almost exactly the same positions as last time, but it was different because Gordon was a lot more cheerful, and while the room still had a tension thrumming through it that made me slightly antsy, it was also one that let just the tiniest tendrils of hope take root in my chest.

Maybe, just maybe, I might be in for a break? There would be even more of an excuse to push away my feelings of despair. I'd love if they'd go away permanently, but hell, you take what you can get.

"Sorry to barge in on you like this, I was going to leave it until the morning, but I ran into your father in the hall, and I think that perhaps you might like to go to bed with this in your mind." Dr Kingston smiled, swallowing slightly, and I braced myself, not daring for one moment to hope for something good.

"I have found a trial that is perfectly suited to your situation, John. The risks are relatively minimal, despite the effects, and the estimated length of the trial is three months, rather than the normal six months, owing to the potency of the medications."

I really wouldn't say I wasn't over-the-moon relieved or anything, but I still felt my face drop at the mention of the strength of the dosages; obviously more concentrated than the salvage therapy drugs had been. I was a little bit terrified at how I'd do with that, but I kept listening anyway; drinking in every word, hoping anyway, because that's just what you do when things appear to be hopeless.

"This particular trial is estimated to be a bit more effective because of the minimal side effects concerning body mass and blood conditions. Obviously we've had to be a little more cautious with the R-EPOCH course, because of the effect on your vascular system and your appetite, but this one is considerably gentler on that front, I have to say. I must warn you though, that your risk of nausea and vomiting is significantly heightened with this treatment, though again, that can be controlled as we have previously done; with medications."

I nodded to show that I'd understood. The suddenness of this was slightly random to say the least. Obviously there both significant advantages to this trial, as well as the strong belief that it would work, if Dr Kingston was pressing so much with it.

I had to weigh the cons against the pros, though. More vomiting and headaches, versus a quicker completion of the set of rounds? I did think about it; I was sure I did, and I definitely knew the consequences, should this fail too, but I also think I knew immediately which path I was going to take.

Dr Kingston was still talking though, and I knew that this would be the deciding factor, and as he spoke, I realised why he wanted me to think it over, though how exactly he expected me to sleep after it, I wouldn't ever know.

"I must tell you though, in order for this particular treatment to be effective, John, the bone-marrow must be entirely clean and free of cancer cells. Due to the fact that the lining of your right lung is now involved in the cell count, I have chosen this trial because it allows us to utilise an autologous marrow transplant - transplanting your own sampled marrow back into your body, once we've treated the lymph disease and the tumor clusters. This particular regimen is a form of total-body irradiation, administered after the extraction and before the transplant, leaving us with a clean slate on which to put the new marrow. A very low-level dose of the same medications, as well as radiation therapy will be resumed eight weeks following a successful transplant, to ensure that no cells come back into prominence. With this course of action, the outcome promises to be a lot more favourable."

Dr Kingston was looking at me expectantly, and also a little hesitantly, but I wasn't worried about that, I had a question, and I managed to actually shove past the whirling in my head to actually ask him, because really, the answer to that really overrode the potential outcome of choosing what had been put before me.

"Didn't you say that I was no longer suitable for transplant?" My voice was choked as I spoke, and though I knew my father and brothers were in the room, I didn't have the focus necessary to catalogue their actions. I was too busy absorbing and analysing.

Dr Kingston shook his head. "That was true with your last lot of chemotherapy, as well as the infection you had and the alternate treatment you were going to be beginning tomorrow, to an extent. The drugs in that course were a lot harder on heart and lungs, and would react adversely with your system if combined with a transplant of this type. This new regimen, like I said, makes enduring the therapy much less pleasant, but your risk of complications outside of that of infection from a lowered immune system is also considerably lower. The choice is yours, John, but as your doctor, I highly encourage contemplating going ahead with this route. It's the one I've found that has the greatest chance of success, considering your current circumstances."

I nodded my head, the decision already set in my mind. Maybe another person might have wanted some more time to think about it, perhaps have discussed it with someone else or even have gotten another opinion before deciding, but I trusted Thomas Kingston, and ultimately, it was me that was going to go through it, so whose choice was it, if anyone's, to decide but mine?

I knew that the road ahead would be hard; harder than I really had any ability to estimate, but in truth, I was just about on the wrong side of desperation with the waiting and worrying and being so sick and scared. It was this sort of thing that I at least had some sort of control over. With this at least I was in charge of my own destiny, and with it, I had just the tiniest bit of optimism that I would somehow get through this fight, whole and safe.

A quote that I have heard in many different forms sprang to my mind then, and I couldn't help but appreciate the irony of it, considering what I was facing.

_W_ _ith breath in my body, I have hope._


End file.
